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June 25, 2007
The time to go, to fly, literally, back home. I like to travel. Into the sky, over the islands called home going or coming back to them. Sitting in the skin of water, golden from the sun, the silt, patterned like the back of my hand. This is home. I've lived on the prairies, a rolling stretch of green and brown, patched and mended, watered and plowed black soil. That's home too. Flying over in the hum of technology. A baby cries, a kid kicks my seat, lovers cuddle close whispering under the full throttle jets. What's the movie?