Mike Stone's poem is a single glimpse: a yellow crop-duster, far off, flying low over a stand of eucalyptus. The speaker doesn't tell us what to feel. Instead, everything rests on one comparison, the plane buzzing "like a bee over rustled grasses."
That image shrinks something big and mechanical into something small and natural. A plane that is really loud and industrial becomes a harmless insect going about its work. The sound of the engine turns into a gentle buzz, and the trees below become grasses stirred by wind or movement. The opening phrase, "In the distance," matters too. The speaker is standing back, watching, not taking part.
The mood is calm, quiet and observant. There's a hint of wonder in how easily the eye turns a machine into a living thing, and the yellow of the plane helps the bee comparison land. The poem is brief, and that suits it: it feels like a moment noticed and then let go.