Flying at Night

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.

Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies.

like a snowflake falling on water. Below us

some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,

snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn

back into the little system of his care.

All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,

tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.