Eons Later, Down at the Pond

People might be the griffinflies
Of tool-using, brainy creatures—
This could be great as culture gets,

A few orbital telescopes,
Transcontinental constructions,
Era of global supply chains.

There may be all sorts of cultures
To come, hovering, shimmering,
Iridescent as dragonflies

And as predatory, diverse,
But smaller than this peak era’s
Interplanetary wingspan.

Trajectory is most and least
Predictable geometry—
Unchanging so long as nothing

Interferes with it, but nothing
Much needed to make it its own
Orthogonal or reversal.

People, lovers of narrative
Arcs that entrance the whole species,
See only ascent and descent,

Gravity’s rainbow. But this line,
This rising line you’ve been riding
As long as you’ve known how to ride,

It could go sideways, any time,
Could go all kinds of ways but crash,
Could asymptote or radiate

Into a shower of little lines,
Little waves blinking like fireflies,
Pulsing like crickets, hovering

Like these brilliant blue damselflies,
Smaller than the griffinflies’ eyes,
Not to say appetites. Nice pond.