I am up before I need to be. There’s a deeper meaning
to this, but first, coffee with sugar—Stevia, because

I’m at the age where I watch my calories, where
the stakes are higher. Gotta stay trim and fit. Gotta

catch this flight, meet with investors, raise funds. Into
the car—electric, of course—I am nearly blinded by

sunrise, the 405 so empty, the day so clear, it is as
though bleach had fallen as rain overnight. But no:

we are years into drought. On the radio, news of an
oil spill, good people saving oil-drenched sea life,

deploying booms and dispersants to protect marshes,
tourism, the economy. Good people vote, donate, consume,

go green, board planes to grow the nonprofits they run.
Madness at the airport: so many people, masked, yes,

but so close together. I have never wanted less to be
close to others. I breathe heavily into my N95, which

smells sterile. I grow nauseous—a logical response to
madness. The flight is smooth; I hold the coffee down.

Midway through, I open my laptop to write. No matter
how cramped, unpleasant, flying is flying. Over the Rockies,

above the smog, the drying-out Colorado, the fires—sky in every
direction. How not to find inspiration? I think about the recent

anniversary of 9/11, recall the image of the Falling Man, consider
how often we are falling, resisting or succumbing to the pressures

of space and time. Then the descent begins. Life on earth comes
back into focus. There’s so much to do before I hit the ground.