two squirrels and one crane
on this baked plain, where the spare
prairie grasses give way to a creek fed
stubborn stand of mesquite
and hackberry
I saw them, but only after they
saw me: the furry tailed rodents
ran for the brush; the great grey crane
flapped but a few times to take flight
into the white glare of the sun
not one of them knows, nor cares
a peculiar alignment is about to occur
where a cold cratered rock--measely tide
master--will blot out a star, for a
photon funneled spec of time
they'll go about their business
as if only a cloud lingered a bit
above the flat world, changing
the hue of their grasses, while
it passes
billions of us will turn our eyes
to the skies, witness to an event
monumental, or so we math mongers
must believe; though not those creatures
I encountered under the same sun
