Here at the spoke-ends of our galaxy it is easy to forget the central axle moving insensibly slow, still the silvery-white dispersion of stars soothes randomly until we impose a pattern, like the Magi, like the Greeks.
And despite the most accurate of calendars, dawn remains a wager until the great lion of the sun peers over the plains with a growl of heat and the day blooms and withers toward the violet hour where even wise men arrive as strangers because the arrangement is never the same.
As the latest layer of bones, can we ever appreciate how far the swan's neck stretched to uphold the head, the spider's strand thinned without snapping? Do we recall the dark alternatives dodged, any of which could unmake us? Always there were detours where the river never creased the rock that never rose from the sea that never spawned a single fossil.
When light illuminates the Grand Canyon in winter's slant at sundown, the stripes of ages burn with every visible color. What is the color of a radio wave? Only a man asks that.