SIRIUS

Sirius, you arise each evening. Your braying
washes the night sky, as though to daunt us.
There was a time we stood in simple awe
having no idea how far away you skulked
or of your immenseness, a cold dark point
that could barely illumine our occasional thought.
Hawking sits pressed into his chair
held in a gravity with a force of a thousand
suns, all pulling toward a singular focus
and witnesses your slow death
collapsing inward, downward into
your seat on the heavenly chariot
until the moment when nothing
can escape. Hubble knew you all
too well, chasing you across the sky
as you dodged flitting just out of grasp.
You are the coyote, hiding by day
to avoid the hunter, knowing his steps
across the mesa, hearing his footfall
reverberating through the void.
Einstein knew you all too well,
although he rarely glanced upward
preferring to stare through his mind’s
eye, dissecting you, cutting you
into neat slices then reassembling
you and placing you back on the mantle
of his limitless imagination. We no longer
fear you, or for that matter, much care
your color fades into whiteness
and you are lost like another grain
of sand on the beach of time.

MISSING

Orion failed to appear last night
which allowed the bears an evening
of peace, certain they were not prey.
They cavorted as bears are wont,
to the pleasure of Cassiopeia.
The lion stuck his head in, but
lions know the bears need their space
and anyway, they could see the dragon
lurking on the horizon
and even lions know you
don’t mess with dragons
more than once.

LUNA REFLECTS

Tonight the moon will gnaw
away at the stars, consuming them
much as the beaver consumes trees
to build a proper home.
We will stare at the moon, marvel
at its size, at its brightness,
wonder why we never noticed it
like this before, realize
it is because we are so young,
that our memory spans
an infinitesimal bit of time.
The moon will not notice any of this,
content to traverse the heavens
as she has done for what, to her,
is an eon and a moment, time
having no meaning to the eternal.

FISHING

Many years ago,
I would sit in a small boat
and drop my hook
into the river, and wait
for the bass to strike.
Those were the days
when a large enough fish
would be served at dinner,
and smaller fish were thrown back
to heal in the water.
I no longer fish
but the river hardly
notices my absence.

Late in the night
I cast my hook
into the sky, hoping
to catch the wind’s voice,
and if its song is loud
to steal a few choice notes
to tuck away in my journal.
Most nights
there are only the tears
of stars and the song
of the sleeping hawk,
a lullaby to the moon.