She is thin, fragile, wicked fast
and always the same closeness to Earth
Of all the objects at night, she is always the third

There has been just enough hollow
for people to actually go there and try to sleep,
the rubber stamp of gravity cancelled continually

Eight times each night she will scan your backyard
but you are surely not looking;  your spider’s web may
be vibrating with prey, your little male may ask to be eaten

This one is moving so brightly
the other stars meeken and wander off the field of view.
Any focal length will be alright for eight eyes

She is the very size of stars
always small and loosely connected, but new

Like a bright web with a sudden cottonwood seed.

 

 

* From a discussion of the ISS with Grayum Wells.

Cottonwood seed  ©John Gooden