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How many times, I ask, was a fisherman’s task to clean the catch of the day upon this lakeside dock by barely four o’clock, well before the skies turned gray? The handle of the pump would jitter, clack and thump, to wash that night’s fish buffet. 
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They stand at attention, facing the east early in the day, leaving morning behind as the southern sun soars high, yellow masks pursuing closely, the platoon following their orders with natural precision and guidance. Midday falls away and the solar flight continues westward, while synchronized faces track the sun's path 'til dusk, when shadows dim their purpose . By daylight's sullen end, the sun no longer warrants blossoms' attention and blooms rest. 
I dream of space and rocket ships, rotation of the sun's ellipse, and traveling to planet Mars, a pit stop to more distant stars, galactic dust and pulsar flips. To view without the webcam clips, from my own eyes, not microchips, with reverie's binoculars, I dream of space. The cusps of vivid quasars' lips- the last of macrocosmic trips before awakened mental scars- they shield me from this world of ours. Although my reason comes to grips, I dream of space tonight. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
May 2019
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