Flight II

A pinpoint of orange fire
flickers out across the forest,
the sun's dying rays refracted in a
prism of glass-trapped flame

and up above, a dog fight
scours the sky, black shapes
cross and recross, swing, converge,
scrape space above this tiny town,
the afterburn's white flash 
singes our breathing air.

Their power takes over - manmade
ingenuity
supercedes the disappearing sun -
their mimic fury roar
all orange and fluster
competes with his stately progress
of dispersal and soft pastel,
weaving purple strands across the sky

and as the light dims, withdraws,
the orange flash held for a few short breaths
reflected in some
unknown glass, recedes to leave
my room grey
my empty eyes
and me with no horizon line 
to look upon,

space is filled with tiny arrowheads
that draw my gaze -
their horizontal lines slice
black against the gold,
bold manoeuvres that are empty
in their reach, a cockpit full of air,
all drive and signature,
a childish flight of flattery
that copies as it
draws itself against the sky.

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