Off in the distant sky white bombs of thunder burst,
Signs that the pilot Huns pass bounds that they should fear,
Signaling avions to turn their warpath there.
Men listen tense in groups to catch the sound of strife,
The purr of distant guns, like rustling leaves of death.
While minutes pass, everyone waits.
Then in their vision sweeps, curving in steep descent,
One plane returning.
Rushes by close o’erhead, skims like a gull to earth,
Races back, comes to rest; those in wait run to meet.