My headlights don't reach that far (reflections on embarrassing secret identies)

My life is made up of visions of things ahead of me (at a distance -- possibilities, dreams, tragedies) and behind me ("young lovers try to get a grip on what they tasted in that kiss") but my headlights are notoriously bad at seeing what is right in front of me. Like tomorrow or the next day. When I have a car to drive.

I am a helicopter floating over a landscape with spotlights showing spaces around me at night. In the day I see ridges ahead and the shape of continents outlined with mystical clarity around them. 

I have learned to land and take off  but usually have to hop a ride on a truck or train or ship to move across the land.  My daughter's invasion of this planet has made landing the helicopter and walking around much more regular and worthwhile.

I talked to a car operator recently. She gave me tips for navigating roads. She reminded me how to switch the headlamps on and off, testing that they are working. Turn signals too. It was a little embarrassing to admit this was more like grade school than continuing education for me.

But she may need a helicopter ride someday. Or not. Which is also ok.