We are tearing along at 120 mph about six feet above the ground in Mark Edwards' Citabria. Ripe cotton brushes the landing gear, and the field is a dirty white blur. "You want leaves in your brake calipers when you land," Edwards says matter-of-factly on my headset. The Mississippi cotton field is bordered by dirt roads and outlined with rows of trees, fences, and more power lines and utility poles than I've noticed anywhere before. Silos, sheds, and barns jut ominously. When you're looking for potential obstructions, cell phone towers and radio antennas held erect with near- ly invisible guy wires seem to multiply.
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