Too low, too late, too loud? I wish I could cram the eyes of one of those pilots into your eye sockets for just a moment so you could see what they see, the way they see it; their ears to the side of your cavernous space-for-rent melon, so you can hear what they hear, the way they hear it.
How preciously delicate you must sleep in your beds at night, protected by those who dare to take up an oath, a JP-8-guzzling, rotary winged mover and dare fly over your home in your neighborhood.
Tug fervently at your sheets, pull them up over your head, wiggle your warm toes, and curse them if you will. As for me, I hear it differently. I hear the thwack thwack thwack and murrr of freedom and sacrifice, and that is just fine with me.
Perhaps these fine soldiers had a job to do. Perhaps it was actually safer for them to get under the weather and fly a route to Interstate 5 that takes them safely to Gray Field, to then go home, only to sleep a few hours during the day in their beds next door to you, with your absolutely essential lawn mowers, weed wackers, edgers and pressure washers keeping them awake for the sake of vanity.
Too low, too late, too loud? Never. You can’t schedule freedom.