With my face pressed against the glass as if I am a child on my first plane trip and not a 20-year old that has flown somewhere nearly every year of her life, I imagine the plane as a great bird. As it sharply angles to turn, I imagine the wings are piercing the sky and clouds as if they are the water and the Earth is the clouds. The Earth comes into sight again and I imagine it as a map and I its cartographer. I like to look at the houses and the farmlands and think of them as their own people, as if they are what is alive on this planet. Each house has its own personality, even the ones in the sprawling neighborhoods where each house looks about the same. The longer the driveway, the richer the house wants to seem; unless it’s a farmhouse, then they just want to fill the dirt on either side of their driveway with crops and life. I see a plume of steam and imagine it’s a train going up around a mountain (knowing full well it’s some sort of factory on the lake). We finally touch down and it’s as if the plane heaves a huge sigh of relief. It takes us where we need to go and I like to think it feels like it’s done a good job when we make it safely.