Aboard This Idling Time

Canada geese arrowing south, Black-op's drone's hum overhead, their silhouettes caught in the last blush of a winter sun. Old woman sweeping gray hair back into gold as she bends to a labor only her eyes remember. I am going to sell-up, take this patch of land, and farm myself out as a useless yellow hound for kids to miss every time I stupidly kill myself. The days are chained to each other, I am ready to jump off this old blanked-out window loco motive-lessness, follow the geese to where weird aircraft are considered the new norm, and question nothing - all answers are soft landmines for the heavy-footed.