Maybe Blue Demons Would Be a Better Name

It’s the same every year.

The sound of the sky almost wrinkling from the impact. The grand intrusion of angels. Who knows if they are blue?

They’re definitely annoying as they streak across the sky each August. I try to forget them and hope the pilots decide to travel to Disneyland instead, where all the magical lands will welcome them. Or maybe the pilots could go on a Zen Retreat in Colorado for a week and contemplate a world without elegant fighter aircraft flying in formation.

The sound they make brings war to mind and how it must feel for people who came here to escape the unbearable memories of bombs and drones and their aftermath.

Even in peace and distance, there is no escaping trauma.

I suppose I could calm down enough to appreciate the beauty of the jets, but they don’t inspire pride or awe.

Not my aesthetic.