Away up high, the behemoths circle round to fly. The weaving contrails catch the sun. They fly in peace, in perfect flight, the broken backs of splintered trees, smoke in the dusk, a gentle breeze. They stir the embers, fan the flames. And acrid smoke drifts from remains of what once were men; now charred lumps of black and bloody, streaming meat. That night the rats come out to eat, the dead and badly wounded. (x)
