On A Planet With Low Gravity
By: John Grey
Sunset smooths out the rocky edges.
Men leap like rabbits against deep sky.
I could so easily join them.
Gravity can't compete with the spring in my bones.
But I prefer to remain grounded,
gape at the sunset,
that cross–stitch of reds and yellows,
magenta and cloud–filtered blue.
Shadows draw dark sheets across
rocks that have been up for hours.
Woods are a tangle
of tree and wind and light.
Clarity fades.
Winged creatures meld into
a canopy of roosts.
Then I see the men again,
dropping one by one,
scatter–shooting the last of my vision.
through a silent seism of stars.
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