Airplane View

All right, I know I've been in Oxford for two days, and this isn't exactly what you're all interested in, but what I wrote on the plane is all I've had time to write thus far:
The last time I was on an airplane, it was dark out, and at any rate I was in the center of a row of five seats running down the middle of the plane. It didn't make for much of a view. This time, I had a window seat. I waited until we'd taken off and gotten fairly level to open the shade, though, as the alarming angles I could see through other people's windows out the corner of my eye just scared me.
But when the window was open . . .
Chicago was one of those models from a museum, all green moss and glassy glue and tiny wooden buildings. All was bordered abruptly by a line of gray, stretching into an overclouded plain--the lake. I peered out in delight and fascination, wondering about all the unseen people below me. The city seemed unmoving at this altitute. But as it slowly disappeared from view, and I was left with nothing to look on but wisps of clouds and the water, I saw a fast-moving speck on the water--a speedboat racing across the lake's surface. I watched it til we were out of sight of one another.
Then, I was left with clouds. Great arctic landscapes--ice floes, glaciers, snow-crusted hills. There seemed little difference between the heights of the clouds and the steel gray distance beneath.
The gods would not have walked on clouds. They are as uneven and rough as a field deep in snow after children have been playing there, making movement slow and laborious. The gods would find somewhere with easier going, and leave cloud-walking to lesser beings, polar bears, perhaps.