In this bluest blue of the first morning venture I can hear a helicopter or a C-130 from the airbase nearby. Yet, despite my squinting, I cannot see it.
I avert my gaze from the sky, moving it to my front lawn just in time to invade the dog’s privacy as she performs her morning necessaries.
The skyward sounds intensify, I attempt to find their source once more. Still unable to locate said airship, allowing my eyes to follow instructions given by my ears, I spy a hawk riding the thermals, perhaps looking for a rabbit to invite over for breakfast.
Able to still hear the warbird or rescue chopper, my imagination stirs these sounds, the vision of that sleek, hunting raptor.
How tiny his goggles, his helmet.
How deftly the hawk fires rockets from under his wings while strafing the rabbit village with his machine guns. They scatter as the burrows that nested them warmly, safely in the autumn are destroyed in flying debris and fireball.
Breakfast is served, our thunderhawk dives to inspect the results of his latest scrambling mission.
The dog and I weep softly as Taps plays for fallen lapin infantry.
Our own breakfast is griddling, we turn our backs to this morning’s madness.
The omelettes are ready, the bread, baked, pulled from the oven, the coffee is hot.