Sitting on an Old Stone Fence, Looking into the Distance

by Dick Allen

Far away, there’s what might be a windmill
or a silo, or just a trick of the eye,
and are those eye specks or crows
floating out there? Or are they

remote controlled model airplanes
and I can’t see their owners
who must be even farther away,
hidden under some small hill. Their hands are

fiddling with switches. Or are those crows
really drones in surveillance, rising toward us
from a darkening future? Are the drones armed?
Has “In God We Trust”

been written upon them? . . . . And now
a small white cloud, and now. . . .