From On High

I’m flying across the continent

In a coveted window seat,

Observing the states below me,

At thirty-three thousand feet.

So many towns look miniature,

Small as the point of a pin…

I wonder how my life would be,

Had I picked one point and settled in?

Could I water ski on the lake below,

Looking now like a thimble pond?

Is there a person now invisible…

To whom I’d grow incredibly fond?

I bet if I made the return trip,

In a car and not so fast…

I’d see the same towns magnified,

With still the same questions asked.