Predictably,
the plodding sun
deadpans across the sky again,
overwhelms the moon,
then winks behind
a wrinkled mountain brow
to give dark its due.
Another day
whimpers shut,
leaving me rankled.
Like most, I crave miracle—
something biblical,
cluttered with clatterbang
and awe.
For better or worse,
I drive West,
towards the great conjunction
trying to eavesdrop
on Saturn and Jupiter
conspire, gossip, or curse
in plain view,
creating myth from illusion.
I catch a few words
here and there
and slip deeper
into the universe.