Flying Back From Providence

Flying back from Providence.
In the dark, waiting for dawn.
Below. In the underneath.
Darkened neighborhoods, districts
Outlined by faint street light perimeters.
Occasional mist obscures.
Peaceful.
Then out of the sweet, quiet dark of predawn
It juts out
Like an ice pick in the eye.
Seering.
What the HELL is that.
Red, severing light.
Oh, the neighbors must hate THAT.
It can be seen, viewed with PAIN, from over 13,000 feet.
It can be seen from bloody outer space.
It looks like some one's back patio sliding door.
Two brazen glowing red rectangles
Lying flat.
Staring boldly upward.
Hell's patio door.

The cities.
And out of the dark
Looms a giant spider.
Exoskeleton intersections,  wreathed in light, delicate and fragile.
Like wisps of spun, gold light.
She is attended by her mates
Who gaze upon her from the outskirts of her web.
She slowly creeps toward them.
Expanding.
Until she swallows each one. Slowly.

First hub.
First landing of the day
Soon to come.
The dawn reveals the Quintessential Symbol of Winter's Comfort:
The Mitten.
Not pale with snow, yet.
But green, dotted with villages. Tree lines and fences
I look down on a motherboard of agriculture.
And now, the clouds.
Descent.

Turbulence.
How the hell does it stay in the sky.
This culvert pipe with wings.
God only knows.
And for THAT
I am thankful.