Two black helicopters
Army ones,
Like dark wasps
Pregnant with power,
Roar over a neighbor's roof.
Somewhere,
A land where abundance
Is measured by the thickness
Of
Dust,
Blood,
And oil,
Children scurry under desks,
Or worse,
Do
Nothing.

I run outside,
Curiosity pulsing where
There should prevail
Fear.
An infant stretching her hand
To a glorious flame,
I am
Staring, wondering
As the figures retreat
With the sunset.
And while the last light wanes,
The hum of blades
Melting into cicadas,
Know you will sleep soundly tonight;
Our planes serve only to
Darken someone else's sky.
How fortunate we are
And how
At peace.