Air and Earth

I didn’t know it was going to happen. We were just sitting at the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs when it appeared, wafting over the roof next door. A hot air balloon. I had no idea people did that around here.

It appeared as suddenly as falling in love, quick as an impulse, silent as inspiration. I jumped up and ran out into the empty street in my pajamas to get a picture.

A far away voice called, “Good morning.” It was so still and quiet, the sound carried without interference from the man in the balloon, high overhead. I waved to him.

He was so high, unprotected, in nothing more than a woven basket, as if he were a bushel of apples. He could have easily tumbled out, and I felt weak at the thought. Nothing around here would have gentled his landing. Just church steeples and roof peaks and fence posts. Instead, defying gravity, he turned the loud burner back on, got lighter, rose higher and floated away.

After the hot air balloon drifted out of sight, a pickup truck bearing flags drove down our silent street. The flags matched the bright green and yellow of the balloon. The chase vehicle: the crew that followed along on the ground, ready to rescue or refresh or just help clean up all the gear after even the most successful flight.

As far as I know, that ballooner landed safely somewhere south of town that day. He would have had to give in to the gravity of time and circumstance eventually. Back to the ground, come to rest.

I imagine, then it must have been a different kind of thrill to have friends at hand to talk about the view, the winds, the grace of the gear. Grounded people who don’t think it’s strange that someone would let themselves be taken up, carried away as long and as far and as exhilarating as invisible currents could take them. The kinds of friends who celebrate whenever you land somewhere new.

Music from soundofpicture.com: “Bliss” and “Meadowlark Among Starlings”