Be witching.

Darting through the sky dragging trails of coal black smoke.

Sometimes with letters, most often circles.

At times the trail is blinding magnesium crackling and sizzling with an odor that makes the teeth hurt.

Then I land, dismount the broom. Look to the skies and see other letters, other circles.

Higher in elevation from where I patrolled, less fresh.

I used to fly lower altitude, more often I tilt upwards to try the cooler air and better view.

Walking on, I see other circles, faded but over my station. For my notice?

Some a pungent bilious green, hopefully dispersed before they catch the breeze on earth. Birds and bugs dropping unconscious before then. Take shelter under a tree.

How many heartbeats do we have? Is it vain to take to the skies? Vain to scan upwards for messages and deeds? Tough to take direction (or evasion) when there are errands to do.

Beasts of the field spend all their heartbeats doing their duty, consuming, sleeping, excreting.

Beasts of the field do not look to the skies, or take to the skies, from compulsion.