Airplanes flying low,

and there are no drafts left

plenty of flack, though.

If you couldn’t piece that together,

god have mercy.

I know they can see me from here,

from all the way up there,

rip me apart from there.

The blinking green lights of the wings of the plane blending fluently with the lightning strikes,

then the lightning takes on the precise glow of that same planes wings,

it’s at the drop of the hat in which this occurs,

it’s all green when this occurs,

when that plane is flying so low,

amidst the hum of the cicadas,

and can come grow from nothing.

Even if I was able to get a word in edgewise,

it’s still there,

lingering at night,

loitering, just out of reach

and all we are missing are the fireflies when were having this much fun.