On the plane to Reykjavik

The setting sun looks like a sunny side egg slowly sinking into fluffy egg white clouds. I’m cold.

Now it’s a gold band gracing the forehead of a snow queen. A fiery red-orange crown melting into a slim sliver circlet.

Moment pass and now it peaks out from just under the cloud cover like melting lava struggling to break free.

And now it’s a golden crust left sitting on a gray porcelain plate.

And finally, the fiery rim of one last gasp, breathing little red-hot dots on the cloud cover horizon before giving way to dusk.

Oh. There’s one little sad glimpse of light from one little house down below us in Greenland. Not even a sad little string of pearls or orange street lights along a highway connecting it to anything. The solitude is immense.

Glaciers! Or wind-whipped and cold-hardened ice forms below! And the dusk is interminable, now a dusty rich fuschia and brick brown blur on the horizon.

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