W and the Ladle

At some point, any animal
Only senses a multitude
Of any numerous likeness—

The brain can’t count holistically.
It takes in one, a few, many.
Exact counting’s algorithmic

Beyond maybe half a dozen,
The pips on the side of a die.
After that, you sense by clusters,

And at some point, the brain gives up.
How many stars on a clear night,
Visible to the naked eye?

Let’s say you’re out in the desert.
It’s moonless, and you’re in dark skies.
The brilliance is overwhelming,

The sprawl of the heavenly host,
So weirdly silent and solemn,
The myriads in procession.

You’re actually only sensing
A couple thousand points of light,
But the brain wants to cry millions.

There are millions, of course, and more.
There are billions upon billions.
But an animal sees many,

Only overwhelming many.
The rest is for machinery,
Cultural technology, math.

Settle for the landscape of night.
Know what you know thanks to hive mind,
But hold the small architecture

Of your perspective to your chest.
Stand in your door of the bright frames
Circling each other in the dark.