Brown circles on the grass mark the place of landing.

Flat and trodden down where they milled around.

They come at night, stay a while,

then disappear as if they had never been.

Leaving the brown circles of dead grass

and the smell of fuel hanging in the air,

testament to them being here.

They don’t look odd, they look and sound like us,

dress like us, talk like us.

I wonder where they came from.

I wonder where they will be going next.

They’ll be back next summer.

When the fair comes to town.

© joseph r mason 2020

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com