Why are they up there?
The warplanes, with their
jarring banshee cry.
Are we at war?
I suppose tumult and discord
are always among us...
But why in the sky, brilliant
and deep, unblemished by
clouds? Why must they
inscribe their contrails?
Baleful white tailings,
deceitful calligraphy from
a chicanerous quill...
They call it “exercises,”
but why flex a
muscle of such
grim contrivance?
--Dilated Peebles
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