Consciousness, Literature and the Arts
Archive
Volume 4 Number 3, December 2003
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There's
an astronaut and he's sitting
under a tree, sometimes it's an oak;
one of the ancient one's in the Santa Monica Mountains.
Sometimes it's an Olive tree like one you'd have in your backyard;
Except that in each instance, the tree
is set in sand dunes, dunes as far as the eye can see.
It's not desert sand. It's beach sand.
Like you'd find on the west coast
of Denmark. But there's no North Sea in sight.
The astronaut just sits there, one leg bent,
as if you'd stepped into a Bradbury story
and everything is about to begin.
The heat shimmers off his helmet and his suit
and when he notices your stare he turns his head
moving haltingly like a DVD with a scratch, little digital squares
dissolving and reassembling.
And a screech as from a red-tailed hawk
issues from his reflective visor
where you can only see yourself.
Your beak open and your wings readying for take off.