Whorishly sniffing at the thinner air
- odor which was wonderfully all hers.
Things she'd brushed up against in her low-flying imagination now had a name.
Lubed Tart Target.
She was high on something.
Dusting crops that would bare no more fruit.
Grounded due to the weather
She was in love with the landing strip.
Seeking that which was all in a row,
as far as she could see.
A batted-at moth addicted to openings...
Dark-Dwelling light seeker
with average wings.
She is Ah Me Oh Earhart...