Head in the clouds

I've been flying a lot lately instead of riding. Which is why I saw this guy.




Who reminded me of this guy.



But I digress.

I fly Southwest Airlines, which I love, because they have open seating. It means if you know the system, you can sit where ever you want.

I always opt for seat in front of the wings by the window. Sometimes I don't look out the window, usually because I love reading the airline magazine, Spirit (where one of my essays ran), sometimes because I have chatty seat companions (which I enjoy too, because it's a great bit of randomness that helps me as a writer - beware, if you sit next to me you could be in my next novel), or because I have to work like a dog before my one hour flight is up.


But lately I've flown so often that I've read the whole magazine, had silent people in the row, and been done with work.

So I've been looking out the window...




Friday we were flying back at the best time of the day. The sun was hitting every patch of water and making it look like shiny pennies had been dropped by a careless giant.





Then, as we got closer to the Hill Country, lakes lit up like molten gold.




There were dragons, golden and shimmering in the late afternoon of summer,




Spikey in places, smooth in the middle, golden everywhere.




Fat golden geckos, maybe horn toads, sunned themselves under us.




Cloud islands filtered the sunlight down, but in the distance was another golden lake. These pictures from my phone don't capture how bright the gold was - as bright as your child's smile, as luminescent as a lovers gaze. Gold at the end of the rainbow would be dull by comparison.



It was a game, after a while, trying to find the moment when the gold made the most interesting leaps across the water,






Tangles of river catching the light and tossing it back into the sky, beauty unseen most of the time,





because most people are chatting, reading books, working, sitting on the other side of the plane, missing this incredible dance of light on water, gold spilled, there for the taking.




Then, we got here. This is the lake where I live. We fly over it on the way home sometimes, not every time. But I've never seen it golden like this.




(this post was inspired by Lisa's cloud pictures and Carmon's roses.)

Next post: A letter to Leslie.