Tomorrow morning about this time,
I will be boarding flight three-sixty-nine.
As it circles round the ocean and heads east again,
The flight back home is like a dear old friend.
I spend hours with my face pressed up against the glass,
Staring as the landscapes evolve as we pass.
I make shapes of the clouds and map out lands far below,
And wonder who lives there - maybe someone I know?
And where do the roads lead, and whats that big lake?
From my view, it's stunning down in the flyover states.
