And then there are those
wide-open October nights
way out there on the high seas
of the lower Mid-west,
and nothing but stars stars stars.
And maybe you’ve wandered
away from the fire with a friend or two
and a bottle of some not dissimilar
distillation of heat and radiance (to keep
the Universal Engine turning over, of course),
and Time, that supremely indifferent
retriever and reducer of all things
to their least divisible units
seems to have momentarily halted
in the tracks of its ceaseless stalking
of what we so self-centrically (if not
full-on solipsistically) imagine to be
its sweetest, juiciest prey.
And a Greek chorus of coyotes
is commenting on the days events
from the next county over.
And a truck somewhere out beyond
the horizon blows a long, sorrowful solo.
And our phones and clocks
(those little sycophantic servants
and advisers and grand co-conspirators,
as well, no doubt) have been given
their first night off in who knows how long.
So, if you want to speak to someone,
present company should more than do.
And if, for some reason,
you find you need to know
the Time’s current whereabouts...
well, you’ll have to consult the stars.
-Jason Ryberg, 2010