Discovering Iowa
Our airplane traverses the sky, in decent, a cloudy day below, but above that, so sunny.
Now, between layers of cotton, getting darker. The haze of the fog softens the starkness of reality. We’re still smooth and gentle, though, by the hand of an exquisite pilot.
The second shroud of water vapor brings nearing night. And then, as if queued, we push through the bottom, the first thing seen, a bright red barn stolen from a pre-K picture book. Beyond that, grain silos and rolling green hills.
Thank you, Iowa. The Americana of lore lives here, like the intent of the Forth of July, every year, without the pretentious pomp of bad bad Neil Diamond songs.
Middle America.