I remember

I remember.

a small boy running hell-fire around

the house, sputtering, roaring, his fighter jet

whirling and spinning, finally crashing to the

ground amidst the sounds of explosions,

the cries of wounded soldiers and tanks

rushing to the site of the crash.

it was this jet.

the paint job could be improved

but otherwise not the worse for wear.

the small boy is now a man

chasing after other things that fly

for real this time, although

not intended for war.

the only sounds are those of the birds,

a rushing river, the sound of a city street,

the drone of a motorcycle climbing impossibly

steep hillsides

his flying machine is a mere glint in the sky

it watches him from on high.