It was like waking up on a Sunday morning, the clouds around the small plane were like an ocean of duvet. We flew up and out of the top of the billows like we were climbing a mountain of marshmallows.
Light came bursting in to the cock pit, changing from the foggy groggy haze that was Los Angeles with its yellow hue of a hot September sun and smog spewing from the freeways. We climbed; the droplets of condensation and the roar of the engine outside my cushioned headset were the only indication that we were moving through the white.
Then we burst out the top of the clouds, we had this beautiful morning all to ourselves. I could hear my own voice on the intercom, just over the drone of the little propeller that sowed us into the air, keeping us afloat just above the bulbous mounds of clouds; like a raft in Caribbean Sea, heaven below us and nothing but the thickest blue above.
We flew over deserts that looked like the pattern on a Seventies sofa, mountains that looked like wolves teeth and rivers that looked like ink spills. Whole cities that looked like toys, rolling meadows that you could reach out and stroke.
September 15th, 2009
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