Before dawn, a dusty haze and twinkling blankets
Of suburban stores and street lights washed
Out much hope of spotting shooting stars.
Given all the glittering baskets of brighter, moving
Lights often attended by their own devoted
Sounds, why do we even bother craning our necks
Or reading news reports about this or that
Annual mere meteor shower, those silent squibs
That rip the night? The sight of one jet blinking
Red and white, with a roar for a trailing tail,
Would have sent the ancient astronomers
Into paroxysms of fright. Emperors might
Have lost their lives. What is it then, in us,
Our brains lit up to insomnia nightly, our neurons
Withering like the needles of brilliant Christmas
Trees, loaded down with all that culture’s given us?
What is it that wants to gaze in perfect silence
At the stars? How addicting, almost necessary,
To think that there are invisible or rarely visible
Powers that care about us, individually, our cosmos
Lit like a candle chandelier with millions and millions
Of flaring, winking bright therapy angels. And when
One falls, we gasp and tell ourselves that speck
Of dust consumed meant something just for us,
Something out there we could trust, untouched.
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