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Sortie

 

Some asshole is doing Hammerhead stalls and Immelmanns above my house
All day long, climbing, stalling, diving, turning, throttling,
shaking a leather fist and dropping colorful language
Shouts and taunts trailing, clutching at the end of his scarf,
mute and lost in the wrapper of smoke and comic farting sounds
like a bee plumped with nitrous oxide
and carbon dust
alarming the barn swallows and
tipping the weathervane senseless

I  know he is pissed at me
but do I know this guy?

 

All day long the clouds come and go
but he is still there in my canopy
my .5° of sky
tormentor of this thin array
a ghost writer with finite ceiling and license
buzzing each glance to the west and puncturing every line of thought
with fusillade of bullet points
that the wind edits before they resolve

Until the sun is down
I know he will be returning after dark
in a glider to reconnoiter
his next sortie