From: I believe in Spaceships [a work in progress]

They came in over the west field, flying like starlings. A heartbreakingly beautiful rotation of flight. Tumble-fall. It was just the time of year for starlings, too: the fencerows touched with colour and the light lengthening and warm across sunflowers and wheat stubble in the fields.

Like starlings, only pink and round and wingles

So: in over the west field, clearing the maple windbreak, dropping in a swirl like a dryer-full of clean warm clothes to land on the lawn. We watched them from the porch, afternoon beers cool in our hands.

"What'dya think?" I asked, slowly, careful to make my voice sound as if things like this happened oh-so-often. I’d travelled the world, been to every continent, and I’d be damned if something like this was going to shake me.

"I dunno. Beautiful though. Beautiful," said James. He rubbed his stubbled chin but kept his eyes fixed on the lawn. Hannah held her fingers against her lips as if to hold words in, nodding slightly. Automatic gestures. I realised I was unconsciously picking at the damp paper label on my beer, tried to stop, and then started again. So much for suave.

This is not the sort of thing you tell the newspapers, the television. Obviously. Not that we didn't think of about it, consider calling Pete at the weekly paper. But what to say?

Instead we sat on the porch, barefoot and September-hot, looking out at the shadow striped green swathe of lawn, now polkadotted with pink discs the exact colour of strawberry smoothies. The air hummed slightly, contentedly. The dogs continued sleeping one-eye-open on the steps. The creek was slow and brown between thick verges of cattails on the banks. In most ways it was a perfectly normal afternoon. Except, of course, for the flying saucers.

We finished our beers and started on a second. It seemed like the kind of day that justified a few.