Rained wind lashes my face as I stand at the end of the runway barely able to hear the world around me through Autumn’s relentless chorus. Clouds grey with sun striking through.

My feet thump the runway.

The same ground that planes cycled every 90 seconds in ’91.

The same ground that refugees will make their new home.

The same ground where I now tire. But these grounds echo to push on.

Perspective.