Arriving

The view from the plane on the way into San Jose airport is one that made me wish I had a camera. There's something ... amazing about the vast swathes of light sprayed across the black, slashed here and there with the deeper darkness of the bays and inlets that litter this part of the coast.

I couldn't help but think; I'd give anything to see the earth from space. That's my fondest dream, my deepest single desire. That being said, I don't know that it's comparable to the beauty of a strip of light that stretches a significant fraction of the length of a continent, a monument to both excess and achievement that changes the dark face of the world in a way that I would be able to see, even from the vantage I crave.

The earth from space would be beauty, but it would be a mindless, undirected beauty. The cityscape, the glowing spray of seeds spread across the coast beneath my plane, is a beauty that springs from the minds and hands of men, and more than any natural thing it puts poetry in my heart.

(Note: No actual poetry was produced in the writing of this post. Count yourselves fortunate.)

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