The lament of an aerial naturalist.

As the sun set just beyond the horizon, the curvature of the earth became thunderously apparent. Less so in the bend of the horizon, but rather in the gradual transference of orange to blue in grand striations.

The lights of a familiar city receded as the creep of rural America extended far beyond areas best remembered. It's hard to imagine manifest destiny fulfilled when in flight. It seems less likely that man has conquered nature with his feverish grappling when viewed aerially. Rather, I see a species huddled in mounds and clumps, steeled against an enveloping blackness far afield of these hives of commerce. A journey into these dominant wilds with pack and pole only reveals this precarious state.

And yet we journey on, perhaps for this very reason.

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