I like the angle of wings, how they shiver on the runway as an artery of redemption.
The murmur of the engines and the wheels hopping like babies, that is freedom.
The sifting through clouds by the wings, like dragging a stick through a puddle of oil, that is like love.
The belly of the plane skimming over the clouds, basking naked in the sun, that is like life.
Descending through the fog bumping in your seat, watching the porthole for the brown grasses of geese and jewelry of the sun on other jets that is like the birth of the world.
Taxiing to a stop and unconsciously taking the sweet, lovely woman's hand, in whichever way she is beautiful, the one who snored through the descent and it sounded like the piano play of rain and concrete, that is like grace in innumerable measures.