Contrails

The contrails scar the morning sky like cicatrix’s on a slaves back. I sit and watch them multiply: white insidious, noxious tracks that linger long among the clouds spreading lethal depositions never knowing their whereabouts’ but knowing their compositions; And when the clouds begin to rain down (acid precipitation) it’s simple then to ascertain Man’s faulty preconceived notion: That they are harmless condensates; This is supposed to vindicate? Meanwhile, a drizzle began quietly falling upon fragile earth.