A sudden spark in the darkness;  
the Old Man raises his head.  
Planes,  
he murmurs,  
I flew planes once.  
His vision drifts through me to  
four Vietnamese pilots buried  
in his memory and his sickness.  
Planes,  
he repeats.  

His eyes go dark again,  
twin contrails spread by the wind,  
falling apart in the empty air
of dementia.