On a hot and humid morning
on a hillside grove in Baja,
workers know—somehow that
far away, on a plain and over-
looking from another hill-side;
great radio-dish & telescope
on a squat and middling set
of buildings. They see as if
through one's mind's eye the
observation deck. Hung just
above the spinning chair of
Calvin—the night astronomer,
now gone—a sphere of light.
Struck down by awe, one man
remembers the future rapture,
the fire from the sky, and the
ascension of the holy to reside
on high. So climbing trees, just
him at first and then the others;
a small vain try to actually see it—
though indescribable the distance
that between them both would ply
an emptiness that one has felt
his whole life.
And no one could describe the sight
that took them not by words, but light
and darkness, color and impression.
And so despite their sharing things;
the night, the light, the empty feeling;
bow'd their heads and camped
a fortnight in that place, in hope
of it's returning.
