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Flightpath

On the flight back I thought I glimpsed your farm below My friends called, no only one of many stops along the way those silo towers, lofts of hay, acres of corn ripe for harvest. I took my place once more. My friends, behind, before me sang louder to dispel the doubt. Though I would not have left the line I veered so know if you were watching our path wingtip to wingtip cutting a swath of sky until the V faded from sight it was I.