for Katharyn Levy, Tom Doran, Lisa Weil
 
We trudge up an unpaved trail until we are on top of the hill; 
the road above, the Milky Way, pavéed with stars.  We huddle 
in the dark, wait to enter the plastic igloo where the ten inch 
reflecting telescope is stored.  One by one, we hear God’s name
gasped in wonder as we take a peek at Orion’s nebula, the double star 
of Ursa Major, the hundreds in Andromeda’s cluster, and, then, 
there is Saturn, sliced by its ring, quivering as if suspended 
on a platinum chain.  We are shrugged into sweaters and scarves, 
cold on this April night, peepers singing down in the swamp
some miles away.  And we are dazzled dizzy, stumbling 
as we find our way back in the dark, tired as the light
that has fallen on us, coming, as it has, 
from so many light years away.