Some musing remembers from when we mosied thru the mists in a hot air balloon.
With dawn just a hint on the eastern horizon,
the air still as if poised on the moment
the quiet edge of expectancy lifted
and the balloon is aloft.
Morning mists swirl beneath us
as fingers of light grasp receding night
we touch the edge of the world
we rise in silence
to where birds hold sway
and yet they now fly beneath us.
Dawn comes up to day
revealing a country quilt
surreal in its beauty.
A trailer park indifferent yet strangely similar
to the disjointed railway cars nearby.
Our colorful reflection in a mirror lake
brightly colored counterpoint
to grey-misted earth.
Riding the wind
we soar heavenward-
the world from 2500 feet
seems alien: we were meant to fly
and we rise above anything and everything below.
We cast ghostly shadows as we wend our way,
our flight spooking a herd of deer.
Sand cranes and blue herons swoop
while a pair of Canada geese
question our presence.
After a time
we land as we must.
The billowing partially deflated balloon
wallows on the farmer's field as he watches.
Time honored traditional toast of champagne,
a recitation of the balloonist's prayer
and we, once again, are earthbound:
our feet firmly planted;
our souls still in the sky.