In The Air
...on a plane and when the clouds part I see a town, a triangle of highways scratched in a dry land. In the triangle, a grid of streets. Clouds again, then a break and a line of tall white turbines in a wind farm turning amazingly fast for their size.
West Texas? New Mexico? Arizona? I know precisely where I am. Seat 29F. But otherwise, I am adrift. Without time or location, alone among strangers. I don't know how long I have been flying, how much longer I will fly. I am cocooned in the harsh thrum of jet engines.
We came out of the savannas of Africa, tens of thousands of years ago, making a map in our heads that we measured with our feet and our eyes, walking in the company of kin. We are nomads by biology. But we weren't made for this.