flight

How dull to be pinned like a bug to this earth, confined only to motorcars and reliant upon roads and contraptions. Oh, to move freely, to soar! To soar. To swoop low over fields, to see the hills come close, as if in embrace, and then to shoot up over it, to rise above it and be not encircled by the hills, not enclosed by the geography, able to see beyond it and to rush to the horizon with a puissant speed and solemnity, but in the intent, the forwardness, the hurtling, soaring flight, a joy, a delight, a rightness with the world, a glorying and a reveling in the air, the speed, the sky, oh god, the SKY, and control, a being-in-oneself, a being in one's element.