One of the least appreciated blessings the Earth gives us is an occasional sense of our own actual scale in time and place.
For instance, we might see a length of highway from the air and just notice a large semi hauling grain toward some distant destination. If we were standing on the ground next to the highway, the truck would howl past, buffeting us with the wind it pushed aside to make time. We might even be impressed with its power and ability to haul so much weight, while it exceeded the speed limit; but at 2,000 feet, the shiny semi is scarcely a blip on the screen of our experience.
The storm rises in the west. Lakes of rain fall in diaphanous blue-gray columns on the flanks of Mt. Terrill, and we, like the insignificant 40-ton semi passing from our sight or the unseen pollen born on updrafts all around us, carry our genetic messages from one place to another.