Goober Wood

We were walking on the path 
through the wood my son had named.
Did I say the day was bright,
the air clear after rain? It was.
The birds were singing.
Water ran underground, new bracken
uncurled beneath the trees,
which began to shake,
knew before we did.
If I said, “the rotors clattered”,
I’d be playing it down.
Nothing prepares you for 
the anguish of metal on metal,
the WHOP WHOP thrash of blades,
the motors rising whine,
all that heat.