Past the trees in the west, through the wind and the gloom and the nip,
   a dot. It is sparkling and white.
   It’s Venus, of course, and the sight
engenders such notions as how we all gyrate and zip
through vacuum (not actually empty), our feet on a pip
   now sprouting. Earth’s pocked satellite
   is away. Round my Nikes, as light
as the thoughts in my head, the leaves crackle and caper and skip.

Earth’s a pip in the Cosmic Papaya yet, in Sagittarius,
a planet of clouds trips a voice in my mind: Multifarious
   heavens! I ask you, How is it
   our improbable world’s so exquisite?

On passing a muster of mallards, afloat just below
   a floodlight which glows like a sun,
   I query them, “Why do you shun
the shadier parts of your pond where you certainly know
the chance of attracting the notice of hunters is low?”
   The mallards don’t answer. They’re done
   with talking to folks now the fun
of gorging on junk has been swapped for the tang of lamp-glow.

Earth’s a pip in the Cosmic Papaya yet, high in the south,
a planet of clouds makes me think, If my brain were a mouth
   it would shout to the heavens: How is it
   our improbable world’s so exquisite?

Jupiter’s glow follows Venus’s, still beacon-bright
   but now ever so gently descending,
   as my hike and an era are ending
as the leaves, rushing round my two feet, understand they can’t fight
the blizzards now brewing, as trees dream more soundly each night
   as the ducks on the pond are transcending
   their nature, my homeward path bending,
the chances of all this existing far smaller than slight.