There the three mates below the simultaneous dirt
in foggy hour,
Sunday stir

Bird chirp beyond the leafless limbs
Burnt paper masks around the leaflet scene
Awash the winter weighted storm, a propeller-sound

rumbles the bumbled air

a hum-drum conundrum drumming engine from the cloud

a hum in the back pocket



at once I am looking up
unfamiliar craft
"who is it?"
knocks at the pod bay door

a small shape, splasmatic
falls beyond hillcrest into grey

f la sh

all is gone