Midwest Sunrise

In only my sixth consecutive week flying to work, I’ve lost interest in looking out the window during liftoff, and normally I choose the aisle, so it’s not the best view anyway. Today, though, as we level off somewhere in the middle of Indiana, heading south toward Cincinnati, a flat red-orange sun hints at sunrise as it emerges behind a totally flat horizon in the east, something I’ve never seen before. Since living in the Midwest I’ve watched the sunrise over houses and trees or behind clouds or other uneven obstructions, but never above a perfectly-cut, linear division between earth and sky without a cloud in sight. At first it only glows, then it takes the shape of a gold coin turned on its side and giving off a brilliant shine, and next it begins taking its recognizable fireball quality, only I can still look directly at it, mesmerized while the magazine I was reading, opened to an article I’ve since forgotten about, lies draped over my right leg. I’m not overcome with an I-love-living-here sensation, rather an I’m-glad-I-experienced-this-while-I’m here sort of snapshot to be locked into my memory.