In the life of night, the glaring cat creeps;
mice discover sharp-edged horror of play.
In night’s life, sleepy pilots, from their steep
view of earth, mutely marvel at displays
of galaxies both above and below.
Through pulsating rising and plummeting
of night, I move from lone bed to window,
consider my foggy eyes’ glum meeting
with vapor streetlights’ searching glow, how their
glower one moment mirrors my lost mood,
how their power next second can’t compare
with galaxies whose brilliance never stood
a chance next to your eyes. Through deepest dark
lingers longing call of the meadowlark.
Roger Armbrust
March 30,
2013
