(no subject)

The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds, strewn across a blue blanket
I lean against the wind, pretend that I am weightless
And in this moment I am happy...(happy)
I wish you were here
--Incubus

35,000 feet, nighttime, a thunderstorm is twenty miles off the starboard wing. Lightning traces a continuous web of phosphorescence; pops and lines, puffs and flashes. The light show never stops, reminding me of aurora I have never seen. My taste for the semi-tropical takes me too far south for evidence of solar misconduct.

Home in Atlanta, cruising at a comfortable eighty miles-per-hour through midtown in a city that rarely enforces the speed limit. I have the radio on and the window open, breathing warm air that matches my speed, the humidity enfolding the inside of the truck in a passionate wrap. The city smells of approaching rain.

I pull off at my exit; the smell of clouds becomes the smell of cuisine as I drive through the restaurant district. Each building is distinct; grilled steak, pulled chicken, seared fish. A few blocks more, and the residential area fill the air with the organic mustiness of autumn leaves.

I arrive home; drops of rain begin to fall, warmer than the air of the city I just left.