Choreographies of Sounding Rockets

From dozens of points around
A mostly self-absorbed world,
Pinpricks popping and fizzing

Like the dance of molecules
On the surface of the soup
That’s getting near to boiling,

The many smallish needles
Of rockets launch every night
To hang in and sample skies

Part way between belonging
To the globe below that will
Reclaim them in a moment

And the surface of all else
That begins with the release
From one planet’s gravity.

They leap, grand jete, each night,
Gathering their measurements
Like tossed bouquets caught in flight.

The dance has only begun
Or dancing is almost done.
Dancers can’t decide which one.