Poetry in prose

Of course, that would be Brigid, my Sister-from-another-mister.  She paints not with oils on canvas, but with words.  It's quite an unusual talent to combine both the technical with the deeply psychological, and she's the only one I know who can do it:

The sea is a broad expanse that neither eye nor voice can span, and when it's calm it lulls you into a false sense of comfort as the engines hum and you gaze out the window with clear, unconscious eye. You are not pondering thoughts that come to you poignant and silent, the order of your conscious, the conduct of life if there really is a proper way to die. You are not thinking of the operational capacities of a Vickers Pump or your own limitations. No, you are thinking about the really cold beer you will have at the end of a day, and the laughter of companionship. That is when you hear it, or think you hear it. That sound.

An aircraft engine has as many variances of sound as a human. There are satisfied hums, deep throated snarls, and the incessant whine of someone who is never satisfied no matter what you do for them. Then, there is that sound, in and of itself, the sound of an aircraft engine over the ocean at night, when there is not enough fuel to turn back, only to go forward to a far away shore.

Get you hence and read.