Engine spatters through vegetation,
planking a field that might
be wheat, perhaps flax,
maybe something unnecessary
or dead.
Conversations between us are now
tucked in like tender young,
and we're taken to stargazing.
The idea of galaxies more than
mere imprints in imagination
out this far, I look too,
thinking of mirrors that cast
no real reflections, only
vague indication in the glass,
there and definite but not defined.
I know these white dots are probably
clustered echoes long since faded,
old eco-systems smeared to obscurity,
but sometimes it's best to pretend
the pulsars are paper dolls.
Sudden, someone cuts the darkness
with voice, pointing at the high dark
behind me. A falling star tails across
the atmosphere and lands in some
field out and unknown.
Their collective oooh is heard for
miles, through the scattered branches
dancing in the new cold wind,
clear back to the fire we left for dead.
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