Where windows tower, streaming light,
where hearts await an inbound flight
and watch the clouds in lofty wonder
above the leagues that split asunder -
they regard above where angels drift,
and those wistful souls that ever shift,
as dancing clouds eternally chase
windy streams in empty space -
those hearts below shall plead to know,
from where shall freedom be bestowed,
within their flights or with the doves,
within the clouds or high above?
Photo taken over Texas skies, many years ago.
I've got a special connection with airport terminals. I'd spend a lot of time in them as a kid. For hours, I'd roam an empty terminal. My only company would be an occasional wandering traveler or the janitorial crew passing by. I'd find myself seated in front of a set of windows that towered three stories above me. I'd spend a lot of time reflecting there.
It was freeing - to be away from family, friends, expectations, to be just another passing stranger to everyone. It was the end of a story, and the beginning of a new one. I knew when I came back through this terminal in a few months, I'd be in a new home, a new school, another new start. For me, it was a place in between, the start and end of a story, the brief respite before the next act.
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