It was a kind of ecstasy, watching those limber grey bodies
undulate through our artificial tropopause,
cold from the vacuum, keen with rime.
Who could turn SAM batteries on such wonders?
Even as their smooth noses hinged open to extrude ion cannon
we sat and did not act. They sang.
We listened as our farms and cities rang
with blasts.
Lakes boiled away. Beams burned through topsoil.
They whistled, popped. They spoke to us.
We heard. White chests.
Red dust.
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