I don't care for flying. I often describe a plane As a bus with wings, And an unpleasant feeling in my ears. But as we slowly climb through solid clouds. Flying is an act of faith: Below the clouds there is still a world on which the plane can land. Then we break Through the clouds and look down at a pearly surface gently undulating and variably glowing. I look up at a higher cloud layer, with blue peeping through the light gray. On the horizon, a band of blue, is streaked with darker shades. Somehow, these variegated layers help me believe in the planet below.