Just above the Swamp

The thoughts remind themselves
Of the single-engine
Propeller planes buzzing

In the low skies around
The recreational,
Single-hangar airport

By the swamp, fifty years
Ago, the way they drone
In big, lazy circles,

Rarely really going
Anywhere, even though,
Unlike the planes, the thoughts

Aren’t making drowsy sounds,
Only making themselves
Drowsy before crashing.