Reading in late afternoon, I detect
on the right bicep button-size motes
of sun dancing. They tunnel by shrubs
wavering in the wind, squeeze past
an eyelash-wide opening in the blinds.
None of this is unusual in itself. Until
I realize light’s photons commute
in eight minutes ninety-three million
miles—just to gambol on the universe’s
hillock of my arm. Think of it: Sun’s fire
sends me, in a flicker of dots and dashes,
souvenirs of flame that sustain earth’s
every mortal thing. How did the sun
find me—and to what end? Encoded
in the photons—is there a message?
I suppose I could flashlight a few polite
ones in return. But what to say to a body
3.8 billion times mine?