dog years: Dogwood

"The time passes better if you imagine some sort of scene on the wing," the preacher said.
"Sometimes I see the dogwood that was on the edge of the treeline at my grandmother's farm. When the house lights were gone, the moon would cause the dogwood to glow like one of it's shallow roots were plugged into a socket. It'd just be you, filling up the window in her back bedroom, staring out at all the black that the night had made and this silver light would be barely pulsing from the flowers of this tree."
"I imagine the tree is planted in the center of the wing and that the roots move along the wing until they become part of the electrical wiring and finally end in the ear phones of the pilot, co-pilot and navigator. That's all roots are is wires that transmit energy to a thing."
I looked out onto the wing and saw a swing set and chains hanging down. There were no blue bands holding the bottom of the chains together. No place for anyone to sit. Just the swing-set and the chains moving easily like a good breeze would move something long and thin.
But we were going five hundred miles an hour. So, I just watched the wing as each bolt worked itself from its station and disappeared to earth. Then the painted stripes rolled themselves up like toilet paper and were tossed away by the wind. After that, the wing folded itself like a carpenters rule and the plane twisted against the horizon, having lost its direction, and then fell like a piece of paper slid out of a cracked school bus window.
"That dogwood hung in the night like a chandelier,"The preacher said. "See it? Or are you watching something else out on that wing? It does help to pass the time doesn't it?"