a year, or two, or three ago—the clock cuts ravine-deep and ravenous—
on the news, the big dipper is chipped, leaving fossils like tangled veins by
the starless stream of night. which means, evidently, light pollution
is at an all-time high & stars haven’t truly been exiled from heaven,
only quietly asked to leave. blotted out in the wake of satellites jaywalking
across the atmosphere that is being nibbled like swiss cheese by little mice.
of course, we are the mice—feet pink as an exposed belly tiptoeing
over still-wet canvases of sky, spurting ink that we do not want dry.
what can be done? reason, it is lovely in its essence, just as the strength of
scientific fact. yet our rodent-small existence has other ways to contribute.
like broadening a world-roaming mind, rambling as an old pickup,
hitched to landscapes vast & brave. like bridging the almighty rift
between willpower & aching lungs, open graves, prepared to sing elegies.
yet the moon still crawls skyward, gratefully—big dipper’s blurry handle,
twisted around the horizon’s collarbone as a mouse tail or a lover.
change begins in the subtle art of caring & we mend each wound,
never any use crying over spilled milk—ways to belong anew, those stars,
unneedy of our help. we offer our admiration, moths drinking up the light.