Hurtling Lonely Glow

Higher than contrail clouds albatross cling wrap sky
the International Space Station flings by quicksilver bright 
a needle of humanity over all the blue cold things. Astro-
nautical measurement is a profounder fathom of space: 
missing us imagining us in our food and sleep activities 
in every gold-melt city seam. We assemble irresistibly iron-
filing along the tectonic islands. We all occupy islands here. 
The astronauts too, islanding up above. A hurtling lonely 
glow in the western sky where the sun seals off the rim 
of Earth—no longer the world entire—our planet island 
in a vaster ocean surveyed by lonelier birds. Look 
as we too soar one-thousand miles eastward 
spinning away the hour of dusk 
see them passing by shining 
beacon shining albatross lonely 
hurtled ones who know 
better than cloud or bird
where high wind comes from 
and where it goes.

Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and mother of four in Huntington, West Virginia. Recent work can be found in Feral, Still: The Journal, New Flash Fiction Review, Fractured Literary, Ghost Parachute, and elsewhere. Say hi on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/.

Published February 7 2022