O, Chicago, O'Hare

One among the shifting mass of humanity intent on countless destinations, one hungry stomach and dry mouth among many, one brain dazed by the speed and altitude of flights unnatural to any animal, by herding, followed by waiting succeeded by rushing, waiting, herding— and more flight incomprehensible to any body contained in this seemingly unwieldy mass of metal lifting improbably over Chicago, where a misty orange aura hovers over the city’s brighter lights, as if its soul sought ascension it could only attempt, as if the aura might break free and follow us, wherever we might fly, wheresoever we may rest— one with the multitude of humans en route through mystery, to mystery.