Crop Duster

We take a fast drive
across the state
through farm country,
see a crop duster fly
dizzy circles over
potato hills, its exhaust,
a slow seep that puffs
from its orange
belly. The pilot dazzles,
flying low and loopy,
skittering between poles,
diving under power lines.
We cheer for the joy of it
from the cockpit of our car.
Weeks later, we read
of a crash, a plane down
in the woodlot, pilot,
next to his plane, both engines
stopped. The potato
plants, their eyes buried,
their leafy tops shaking,
a red-winged blackbird
singing in slow falling flight.