With the exception of control towers, airports are exceptionally flat miles of infrastructure. Landing planes don’t take well to rolling foothills after all.
Just down the road from here, vessels straight from France would lumber by, moving impossibly slow overhead. But it was the planes taking off that brought the real sound. Though hundreds of feet away, they filled the entire shoreline with a rising roar. Small and distant at first, the intensity would redouble to nightmarish proportions, an uninterrupted boom from a little tin-winged toy.
All that aside, it’s the clouds that get me here. Or rather it’s how the sun distorts them, what with shortcomings of digital capture (all white, too bright). But don’t let me wax too poetic about these, because even I couldn’t help but abandon them and look up Nehmzow’s collection. CLICK FOR CLOUDS.
Head grounded in the sky.