after two hours of waiting and two hours of the warmest plane ride ever, we circle the indianapolis airport. from my window seat, indiana looks like a modrian painting, but in greys and browns rather than primary colors. beautiful in its flatness, just enough snow to create a tabula rasa, punctuated by plowed roads and stands of trees. flying into la guardia is something else entirely, same colors, but a different feel, carved into city blocks rather than farm plots, the curves and diagonals so much more obviously man-made, though cut with the same intent. it’s odd, and incredibly relevant, for an instant. and then it’s gone.