We are returning to Juba, capital of South Sudan. The Mission Aviation Fellowship plane exits the white ether of cloud-towers. Below and ahead is an unfolding African drama. The tree-spotted savannah flows around imposing mountain outcroppings dotting the vast plain. Darker, more menacing thunderheads circle the landscape. Storm envelops and obscures the city. 

We cannot land. The pilot leans forward, scans the boundless horizon intently, and dips into a wide and gentle circle. The arc is smooth, seamless. We lope gently in the sky like a carefree gazelle on grasses below, wary only of intruders which might threaten our peace.

The River Nile snakes its way from points south, shining brilliantly like the jewel that it is. At inflection points the mighty flow offhandedly lets go of a small, life-giving tributary to its dry and thirsty neighbors, much as an over-rich king would deign to share with his pleading supplicants. And then that mighty ruler of waters languidly moves on, relentlessly northward, bearing liquid hope.

Columns of rain descend at intervals across the majestic stage. Fierce tongues of gray fluid lash out of the glowering vault to crash against a parched and expectant earth, which responds by futilely kicking up a dusty haze. The isolated storms possess surprisingly distinct borders as they rotate ponderously across the land.

Unlike the imagined hawk of that century-old poet, I do not sense chaos. Turning and gliding and sailing through the magnificent gyre, I hear the Falconer. He is the creator and sustainer of this life's play of reverence and wonder. We pass moment by moment through infinite grace and bewildering beauty. Usually uncomfortable in the air, I do not wish for this flight of marvel to end.

The shower has shifted, lifting nature's curtain to reveal the rambling town and airport through pearly mist. Tin mabati roofs glint in the fading golden-yellow sheen of the evening East African sun. The plane straightens its path and prepares to leave the heavenly house of worship. Cautiously it descends until tenderly kissing the tarmac without a tremor. We taxi past other small craft already returned from towns and villages across South Sudan, having ferried aid workers and pastors and doctors and traders. Passengers emerge into jackets of warm, moist air, alight to solid wetness, and go on our way, still touched by awe.