Much like a yeast made out of light,
it moved as if it had a mind.
It pulsed across their line of sight
and made me wonder: of what kind?
And are there metal lightnings there
blue composites of living fire
arrayed in troupes across the air?
I visualize a sort of wire,
a sort of vacuum tube of air,
with a short circuit for a death
They stopped their BBQ to stare,
unconsciously to hold their breath.
Perhaps in troupes among the skies,
ball lightning sleeps, dreams, wakes, & glides
has children, lives as well as fries.
Perhaps a bigger mystery hides
among the clouds than discoid ships
whose grayish sailors with big heads
sail vacuum on cow rustling trips
& kidnap people from their beds.
