climbing
At first, below, it’s just bush,

the coarse darkness of unreckoned terrain.

This the history of all stories,

or the breath between them

where new ones are framed. 
cruising altitude

The scrub falters at the bounds of farmland,

snags against the smooth tapestry of horticulture

where the seeds of urban backstories are sown.

Page after page of cultivation is drawn,

a study in fluid verdancy with small-town geometries

etched in juxtaposition. Here,

where narratives meet and plots begin to change,

a highway staples the scene like the spine of a picture book.
mild turbulence

Mountains rear and a river spills, mercurial

in the virgin light, leaking through the folds

so it seems each valley holds shards of the sky.

A glimpse of our shadow reveals two narratives concurrent,

context and plot-point aligned, until cloud blooms

and we can no longer read the land.

The disconnect is unsettling, focus narrowing on narrator,

but when sunlight glints on the wing of another plane,

I realise the clouds are full of people;

that the sky, too, is woven with tales.
descent
We breach the cloud floor

and are summoned by green. This is home,

the land, not a conclusion but a remembering

that while our stories may not all fit the same pages,

they are all being written on the same country.