From such a height, clear of the trees and rising toward a silent, floating seven hundred feet, the humps and creases of the rolling Iowa farmland below the hot air balloon look to Leo Spivak like the folds and fur of a beautiful girl, and a young one at that, a virgin untouched and untried, his for the taking, lush and firm and full. She is posed in lazy recline across the lap of the land. A bank of clouds billows against the far horizon, completing the picture with its plume of white against blue, like her cast-off taffeta gown, silk panties, lacy bra. He can't help it that this is what he sees. Leo Spivak is a pilot and a poet and a ladies' man.