August 1945

Steve Perry wrote about this on his blog. I couldn't get it out of my mind.

Bright reflections in the steaming puddles
left by Typhoon Connie’s smaller sisters
on the tropic-heated asphalt airstrip
where the B-29 sits.

Good plane, a workhorse. No storm-spotter,
special mission, says the rumor, airbase whispers
born of boredom at late-night poker games.
I’ll take her picture.

Metal in the sun gets hot enough to burn you
airplane wings shine bright enough to blind.
She takes off into the rising sun, aluminum
on fire with terrible light.