It was summer, about a hundred years ago, and
I was 13, sitting next to my mother over the Atlantic.
Inside  the darkened plane the piolet's voice
interrupted sleep.

   "Folks, I know it's late, but if you look out your windows
     you will see something amazing."

I opened  the shade and found we had flown into
dazzling lights, shimmering colors - dancing, gliding,
whirling to the music we could not hear.

And then it was over. My mother slipped back into sleep
while I watched the  stars, listened to the hum
of the engines, as we headed home.