At 35,000 feet I queue
at the rear of the Airbus
for the loo, lean over a pair
of temporarily vacated seats
for a gander out the oval
porthole to the sky.

The blue upper atmosphere
gleams as sun rains on
scudding clouds far below us,
and I’m surprised to see
the ground splotched with
a thousand lakes in imaginative
shapes—a griffin, a locomotive,
a sheep in need of shearing.

Where are we? Where is this
state or province so generously
lake’d that I’ve not heard of? Does
each body of water have a name?
Can I find them on a map?

It takes a full minute before
it lands in my altitude-addled
brain that the lakes seem to be
moving too, and the illusion
vanishes.

Now I see that they’re cloud
shadows on the move, carrying
their own moisture, some of
which they will deposit at their
pleasure when the proper
conditions arise—

perhaps for thermals that birds
and gliders ride like gentle
waves carrying surfers to shore,
air pressures we wingless
souls cannot feel in flight,

an illusion that never fails
to amaze me, that—no matter
how many times the phenomenon
is explained, how this steel
and aluminum capsule manages
to fly through weightless clouds,
taking so many of us to a common
destination—it always feels
like magic.

•••

enroute to Toronto, Ontario, Canada, from Sacramento, California,
with gratitude to the outstanding Air Canada team of flight 758