The empty runway underneath; above, the waiting sky. This is the transfiguration. The music dies, the conversation drops as thunder presses on our backs. Behind flawed glass the landscape slips and slides. Wrapped, coccooned in speed – still the sky has not received us. Between heaven and earth we’re hurled across the concrete. It happens. Ahead of the shrieking jets at the still point the turning. The nose lifts to heaven. The plane leans back on duckling wings. The sky receives it. Behind and below us the queue shifts beneath a veiled sun. The runway clears, exposed to pale light and for the next supplicant the sky crouches again.