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
his flying machine is a mere glint in the sky
it watches him from on high.