How can it be this cold when the rose bush is still covered in buds? A helicopter flies just over the rooftops.
Contrails spread into mare’s tails; every cloud in the sky is man-made. And there goes a red helicopter straight out of a children’s book.
Under the roar of police helicopters, the weight of the state feels almost literal. Half a block away, a crosswalk chirps: Proceed, insect!
Spider mites zoom around the table, cartoonish as creatures in an old-fashioned video game. A helicopter crosses the sky’s one patch of blue.
Dark clouds against light clouds. A distant helicopter. A white-throated sparrow’s plaintive song wandering up and down the scale.
Bands of cirrus that might’ve been contrails two hours ago are crossed by a helicopter, ponderous and loud, like an enormous scarab.
A Chinook helicopter flies low over the trees, with its twin rotors like a pair of malignant insects mating in flight, gravid with soldiers.
A helicopter alone in the clear sky: the mingled notes of its motor, high and low. A firefly sails past, inner wings glowing in the sun.