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Philadelphia
Flying low, by bridges. Over a river port: tugs, warships (grey), barges. Landing in Philadelphia, it's clear it's a real city.
Twenty-seven CRTs display arriving, departing flights. The airport shops probably do more business than the gross retail of the City of Rochester.
A coursing flow of Humanity boards the plane, U.S. Airways flight eleven: Madrid to Los Angeles, via Philadelphia. Party of three in front of me, speaking Russian. North-african woman in wheelchair follows. Airbus 321, seat 10F.
Five brilliant stars light up the glide slope, illuminate the ethereal highway in the sky. I refuse beverages (they don't recycle.) The plane "tops off" with another three thousand pounds of kerosene, "just in case." Ten planes land.
Twenty-seven CRTs display arriving, departing flights. The airport shops probably do more business than the gross retail of the City of Rochester.
A coursing flow of Humanity boards the plane, U.S. Airways flight eleven: Madrid to Los Angeles, via Philadelphia. Party of three in front of me, speaking Russian. North-african woman in wheelchair follows. Airbus 321, seat 10F.
Five brilliant stars light up the glide slope, illuminate the ethereal highway in the sky. I refuse beverages (they don't recycle.) The plane "tops off" with another three thousand pounds of kerosene, "just in case." Ten planes land.
no subject
god jul, tobin!
tack