Winging homeward from the grandkids, north to south.
The hills of Marin colored bright green by early
October rains, the angles of Bolinas
and Point Reyes
jutting out into the Pacific waters,
the curves of the rivers
emptying out into the shining sea.
Cotton-puff clouds hovering below the endless sky.
above the damp earth, the wing out my window
cuts through the wisps, as if opening the window
to the next view below.
Light refracted in the shimmering ocean, bumps of distant islands,
dots of drifting boats.
The plane tilts with bird-like grace, its hum an arced bow
to the music below.
And me, for once, no wires in my ears,
no nose in a book,
no eyes glued to screen.
The good sense to just sit and watch
as we cross to the city’s edge.
Now the metallic glint from roofed houses, the blue dots of swimming pools,
The green diamonds of baseball fields, the cloverleaves of freeways.
On to the salt flats and a perfect sideways rainbow from the East Bay to my window.
A cornucopia of geometric forms and shapes and colors to welcome me home.
How much of each day are we truly alive
to the wonder of it all?
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