jets raze clusters of leaves lie prone, imitating dead animals in the median of the paved path separating my house from hers. some unseen aerial threat churns like a fleet of jets, announcing the coming storm. the burnished canopy above my head sags with unspent sputum. yes, sighs the sky — my face will break, and rain will fall, but what you're hearing isn't thunder at all. those are aircraft concealed by cloud, true as any lie you've been told. 240805 what's it to you? who go blather from