It used to be quiet here,
a place where a god could think—
plenty of open space and clear airwaves.
But now the traffic is tyrannical.
A herd of jets stampeding
across the white plains without pause,
without progression, endless loops
to the same destination. Much like
their passengers crisscrossing the heavens
advancing, retreating, searching for home—
thousands of anxious minds grinding away
louder than any plane,
breaking the sound barrier,
splitting the sacred shell
of every edge of this once silent frontier.
Even the distant moon can’t escape the clamor—
the bounding footfalls, the crack of a golf ball.
The poor stars have no idea what’s about to hit them.
Copyright © 2019 by AJ Saur, from Particles in Motion (Murmuration Press).
Eighth Day Aches 