My breath leaves clouds on the small window,
Dissipating to reveal fluffy clouds outside,
The wing of the airplane in which I sit.
Below those clouds, the ground is a patchwork,
A carefully cultivated quilt of orderly green squares,
All the same, like they were made in a factory.
I doze off as the blanket below grows boring,
Settling into the kind of monotonous patter only man can create.
My head bumps softly against the window.
When I wake, the scene has changed.
The plane has passed through the gates of Eden,
To a wild, untampered land, unmarked by Adam or Eve.
The snowy peaks of a vast mountain range spread out below,
Wild as white-capped waves on a rough and windy sea,
So bright I have to shield my eyes.
But wait, could that be? Yes —
A chairlift,
A stain of civilization on even this wintry scene.