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