Finally now, the pond ours,
and we the pond.
Behold ye the tarn!
How she fills all crevices,
every jagged corner
flush as if she knows.
Five hundred forty million miles
into the underneath.
At birth light arrived
as standing ovation.
They rose into themselves,
small gods of surface and sky,
seeing heavens
in their reflection.
All morning the world
kept time.
Blue after blue.
Wing after wing.
By noon, air thickened.
Shadow became form.
Hunger found edges.
The pond still shone,
now with questions
in its shallows.
Some vanished mid-syllable.
Some fell back,
remembering water.
By late day, even light
was tired of holding them.
The surface loosened.
The long dark opened.
O! victory,
cried the last silver flash,
touching what made them.
And the pond,
old as beginnings,
kept their echo:
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe the day after.
