So far, the trip is way beyond even my wildest dreams. It's been great reconnecting with friends, and the driving's been beautiful and relatively easy, except that North Dakota goes on forever.
There's a scenic view just off I-90 (and not, as some people would have it, THE I-90, but that's for another day) before it passes over the Columbia River not far from Ellensburg, Washington, so being me, I got out to look. It was windy, and cool, and stunning. And as I turned to walk back to my car, I heard a roar, overwhelmingly loud, like death itself. I turned to look, and there was a fighter plane of some sort, practically close enough to reach up and touch, buzzing the scenic view parking area. Naturally, coward that I am, I crouched (like that's going to help).
And I couldn't help thinking, my tax dollars at work. And yours, if you're lucky enough to pay taxes in the US, I suppose. (Take that as you will.)
The buzzing reminded me of one of my favorite poems, another light and cheerful one. /nod
Here it is: Randall Jarrell (1914-1965)
The Death of the Ball-Turret Gunner
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
*What's a Ball-Turret Gunner, you ask? Click here to see! Yet another job I'm happy I don't have!