priests of the stearman biplane

The blue and yellow crop-duster

Flies towards my sister Margaret and I

As we stand barefoot

Between the corral of udder-drained Holstein cows

And the wood piles rife with black widows.

She, the youngest of 5 girls.

I, the youngest of 5 boys.

The planes are always flying in and out from Joe Precessi’s landing strip.

Flown by the priests of the Stearman Biplane

Going out to do their ritual dusting of fields.

Neo-Ganesha’s out removing the obstacles

That may prevent the existence of the verdant alfalfa fields

And grape vineyards filled with witchy tentacled vines

Surrounding the Italian, Dutch and Portagee farms.

The duster comes closer.

The sound of its engine distinct.

Distinct like the workman-like, gutty sound

Of a DC-3 Dakota.

Distinct like the aerodynamic ease and flow

Of a P-51 Mustang cutting through the air.

Margaret and I prepare

Our hands warming.

Our hearts pulsing.

Our spirits rising.

Hoping it’s John Roche, a friend of our family.

As the duster approaches

About to fly over us and to our left

We lift our arms and wave.

John waggles his wings in reply.

It’s joyful in its lack of words.

It’s as Intimate as water.

We are seen again.

Seen by someone on high.

Again, our lives will never be the same