As I fly through galactic congregations -
will I become static on the receiver of -
an alien nation
A race consumed in the thought of
extraterrestrials , a tiny blip recorded
at a radar station
I would fly into their greatest population
center , meet their leaders , address their
teachers , baffle their scholars and brief
their doctors
Leave them with a poem from Whitman ,
a song from the Beatles , tales of oceans ,
mountains and country hamlets complete
with tiny , smiling stick figures
Drawings of lakes , bluebirds , skyscrapers and city lanes
Green grass , blue sky and flowered plains* ...