Below the wing with its gracefully upturned aluminum tip, riffled waves of clouds float just above the farmland, the dun and khaki squares we have made of this swath of the world. The clouds too have their design, fractal, like whitecaps on an invisible sea, but their order speaks of mystery, a mystery at odds with the dull utility of plodding right angles just beneath them. And yet, as I consider this disagreement, my mind returns to the bit of Shakespeare thats been dogging it lately: “But we are nature too.”
Posted on: Mon, 17 Nov 2014 15:34:46 +0000
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