Runway. Concrete, grooved, tire-marked.
What airport is this? "Pittsburgh?" What are you doing here? "Flying home from a wedding?" The city is remarkably clean and quiet, not like it used to be when the mills were working.
Power lines. "Those are so near the runway!" Bridges. So close ahead that there isn't time to climb above them. Instead we have to stay beneath. Hugging the ground we rocket through underpasses, down tunnels, below telephone wires. "That's all right." No-one seems concerned. This is the normal flight path. You find it both fascinating and vaguely alarming, as the roadways just feet below jet by at rocket speed.
Recurring dream, since about 1980.