Small propeller planes overhead,
whir and circle, in summer sky,
drop straight down,
like marionettes genuflect,
on make-believe knees,
ride the cloud-scape, trace the rim
of bulbous, cottony profiles,
precisely, as if etching them on.

Girl next to me smells like lemon,
bet you she feels,
kisses like meringue.

The field is rich, primal, loamy,
though dry from the lack of a few days rain;
shuffling souls wander, kick up dust,
wish-on-me thistles, ancient spores and grains.

We stood like this once very long ago,
when the woods were not yet here,
when darker nights prevailed
letting in so much starlight,
so much more than now!

Then our eyes focused,
on far away, to the reaches of the roll
of the land, broad strokes of bumpy, lovely earth,
sod, thicket, sun and flora.

Very little then was near;
as we looked
into each other,
we missed the point,
gazing beyond,
the we there blurry in the foreground.

The planes overhead loop then roll,
synchronized in sunlight,
splitting the sky to unveil back-lit flaring pulses,
the blue blare of sparking pinwheels.

At the end of the day,
fires, like match flames, dot the field,
the diehards hang on
till the final drop,
when red-tailed hawks nestle in.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013