The last rider gone

Whistling space bikes flying past
Men's voices from speakers come
From another dimension
Low industrial hum; a background drone
A woman's angelic voice, a song like incense, floats
Interrupted by radio messages from space travelers
Singing almost seems to stay, fading in and away
Calling to me
Space bike riders with bamboo hats
Rush like wind through the darkened forest
There goes another, and again
With a message sent from far; outbound
As riders flash across the mountain valley
Their bamboo pipe whistle remains on the wind
The woman's final calls in coded messages, secretly
For those most told
Another rider sweeps by
As the song of mystery fades away
Emotion abundant as witness to an event
The last rider gone