If you get a good look
On a clear night and think
On it, it’s worth a pause
To note just how few things
Of note go on most hours.
Folks are the same with stars
As with all news: the press
And the tales go to those
Things that are rare, light up,
Fall down, burst—thrills and scares.
But most nights with dark skies
You can stare at the sprawl
Of more lights than you can
Count on your own, stare hours,
And all is calm. They’re there,
And they’re there, and they’re there.
It’s as if you could stare
At all the souls in town,
A good-sized town, all night,
Each light its own life, and all
Night not one flared or died.
Most death’s rare; most life’s slow
In most vast counts of things.
Tales they do; poems they don’t.
Sunday, June 13, 2021
Dark Skies
