runs the old joke, "I'll hafta change planes in Atlanta." Me, whatever hub I'm flying in or out of, I try to remember what an astonishing opportunity I've been given. I try to get a window seat. I try to recollect old Chinese seekers who went to so much effort (climbing, maybe doing breathing practice or a little internal alchemy) in order to look out at the level of the clouds. We owe our grandchildren's kids that much--owe them attentiveness, at least--as we burn through their air.from The Washington Post: Poet's Choice: 'Wrong All These Years--It Isn't' by Jeanne Larsen
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