I look across the Mission flats, from the knees of Bernal Hill.
A log floats and bobs in the sky. No, not a log: it swims,
a sky-shark. But lean, a slender wonder! Sky-barracuda.
Airacuda? Hmm.
That's no fish, but a rigid craft. Great graceful deltafins,
still too small for wings. So what holds the airfish up? No
science we know. The airacuda swoops toward me, grows,
but eerily silent. I hunger for a roar. I'd even settle for
a whoosh, a hum.
The fish skims so low I duck; seems but a few yards long.
But though both eyes see the miracle clear, all parallax is gone.
Stealth technology! Blocked stereoscopy dizzies my brain.
Jewels flash on the fins: runninglights, or portholes?
Is she ship or drone?
The fish wheels slowly (if a mere drone! If ship, why then
she's agile) and descends again, buzzing my head, to squat
(and fill) a parking lot. American insignias. She's big.
Soldiers scramble down.
A second rounder fish swims sinuous, langorous, until
I'm sure it flies a second way. Kana on her hull.
America, Japan--twin inventions, hushed, but now they'll rule
Earth, Mars, Moon.
The troops ply me with code. And I respond!
Surprise myself, and yet... out the phrases come.
I'm an agent or consultant for their secret plan.
Do airfish swim for peace, the stars, or final war?
What have I done?
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