taking flight

Ready to go and taxiing out, past the traffic men, the earthbound souls in down parkas and safety-orange caps for whom flight is no longer a miracle. Out on the runway the word is passed down: a ten-minute delay, and we slow to a stop. I can nearly hear the plane - a moment ago so excited, its wings whirring in anticipation - grumbling now as others take off yards away. In our eagerness to be gone, holding still feels like rolling backwards.

We're given a clear signal and spring forward lightly, as close to on tiptoe as anything with wheels could ever be. The engines hum quietly - then they spool up - they're roaring - and there are no words to express this fierce and primal joy as we accelerate down the runway; it must either be screamed with the jets or borne in white-knuckled silence - the ground peels away and we're flying, flying - the city lights of Dallas fall away beneath us - the earth is nothing; the sky is ours. We have slipp'd the surly bonds.

The delay gave us perfect timing. We break free of the earth just as the sun breaks free of the horizon, and we rise into the morning sky.

(no subject)

Sloe gin fizzes sure go down easy.