Page 168 of Wayfarers

Instead, I tell her it was driving through Big Sur

in the fall, waves crashing on the rocks

below, fog shrouding the coast redwoods

and spruces, tall and silent

like the ghosts of a race of giants.

II. Second Contact

A reverent hush, then, as the disc of the moon

obscures the face of the sun, bringing a premature

dusk and with it the chirping of crickets

and nightbirds singing their twilight hymns.

And I consider how many things

had to coincide in the Great Clockwork for us

to bear this witness. The moon must be exactly

the right size, viewed from a city park

in Clarksville, Tennessee, two hundred and fifty

thousand miles away, to perfectly cover

the sun, which hangs in the expanse ninety-three million

miles distant. The paths of the moon

and sun must harmonize precisely as they

traverse space. My path

must synchronize precisely with the path

of the Girl with Serious Eyebrows at a campground

in Michigan as we drift across

the land and we must see each other

true, our naked hearts humming

the same note of hunger.

We sit close, the warm skin

of our arms touching, in the sudden cool

and shade of the penumbra,

celestial bodies traveling