There had been violence.
Man-made of course,
but nature also had a hand.
I scanned the bank, and,
with a camera as small as a walnut,
took flight
swooping now low, now there.
The exposed metal gears glistening in the sun.
The soldiers, relaxed.
I saw myself, then,
as I flew and framed the skeletal remains of buildings,
moving in close enough to capture the beauty of the carnage.

Glance.
Up a hill.
Suddenly flying is more difficult.
I am hurtling my body up but it doesn’t take,
and then, low, I am airborne.
Returning to an place, an interior,

a few people.
I circle around, making contact.
Holding the bough I broke off,
to help the plant revive.

A man holds it tenderly.
No, it cannot be planted again.
But he is not as concerned as I.

(lost context)

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