when our daughter was just a decade
into a life 

we left her at 
some camp we found on the internet

weeks at a time, for 
consecutive summers

and during one of these 
spooky afternoons

a string of bombers 
floated over a meadow

where she and a handful
of other unsuspecting campers

found themselves
in the squadron’s shadow;

the term for this moment
is gasp 

or rather, finding oneself 
inside of a hairpin

or a mental dogleg;
to her credit, she reported

that for a brief spell
the handful they were

felt a freedom like 
no other;

an easement of history 
so preeminent 

that I am convinced 
it’s innate