Ungainly in the heavens,
perfect in the mire.
The angel of the grunts,
the saviour of the mudbound,
descending where supersonic seraphs cannot follow.
The Avenger, spitting its hymnal —
a litany of blessings,
a litany of curses,
each round a deliverance,
each burst a verdict,
each BRRRT a divine fart of metal and fury.
Not beautiful in form,
function absolute.
Circling —
until the circle breaks,
until the skies bristle with javelins it cannot parry,
unequipped for denial,
its hymn falters at the edge of fires it cannot answer.
Yet in the memory of mud and smoke,
its orbit remains a halo,
its voice a liturgy of salvation and wrath.
Ungainly, inappropriate, unbeautiful —
beloved.
The angel, the saviour, the Avenger.