He is not like the others, who all crane
their heads entirely back, or lie face up
on sleeping bags and blankets in the rocks,
some snuggling to ward off the autumn chill.
He watches, silent, with his head bent low,
the distant stars' reflections swimming on
the glassy surface of the lake below.
A brilliant flash across the sky, then ooh's
and aah's, except from him, who stands and thinks
how he could launch a space craft up precisely
before a comet hurried by, and land
somewhere upon its rugged rumbling crust
to travel to a distant unknown place
where he could be at one with ice and dust.
All of a sudden he runs toward the cliff
and jumps into the water far below.
A clear white streak, above and underneath
his falling silhouette, fades just before
his feet plunge through the icy cold, the lake
a mess of shimmering night through which, ten stars
away from where he dropped, his small head breaks.
Luke Meisner