Dawn

It’s a little strange to contemplate,
Despite the wobble of the seasons,
Just how smoothly Earth’s days and nights go.

Go anywhere you can watch sunlight
Cross the landscape. Even downtown works,
If it’s a day when the sky is clear—

Watch the light emerge on the high walls
Or sink between towers as they flare.
It is incredibly regular.

There’s a flawlessness to it, as well,
That its pure predictability
Dulls among rarity-obsessed apes.

At every instant, sunlight’s moving
Without snagging or tripping, without
Ever once a noticeable hitch,

Which is as well to congratulate
Earth on its perfection of spinning,
And when you see those pictures from space—

Marble, bead, blue dot, single pixel—
To think that tiny thing spins so well
It’s kept at it billions of orbits,

The orbits themselves marvels, but not
Like the days, so smooth on that small world
That its minuscule lives sense no skips.