557
Signals
after the image “Alignment II” by John Paul Caponigro
and “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang
The dusty rose sand warms my soles
then my legs as I drop into the waves.
Otherworldly boulders float in front of me,
hover in stillness—in brazen defiance of gravity.
The clouds point as arrows and I know
it can’t be too long before I’m no longer alone here.
I trace my own wavy line
in the sand next to me.
These might be from another planet,
another universe, or something
so much farther and different
from what I could ever imagine.
Light reflections shimmer in the distance.
They’re here. I knew it.
More people are coming
the sounds of their approach
bring threats of ticket sales,
screen-printed tee shirts,
and catchy slogans to describe
this new roadside attraction.
But buzzing weightlessness tells me
this could become so much more
than someone’s next quick buck.
But until then, I wait and try to listen.
A threat? That it’s too late and we’ll soon pay
for all we’ve done—
the burned and razed rainforests, the silence
where golden toads once croaked and dusky seaside sparrows
sang their buzzy songs before
the last one died at Disney from DDT.
A warning? That we’re toward the end?
Or maybe, this is an offering.
A message that we’ve had witnesses—
not judges, out there farther than the farthest star
we’ve never considered.
And they’ve seen our attempts, however small or futile.
Every planted fig, rubber, and cacao tree
intended not for our consumption
but for the beauty of our exchange
of nutrients and oxygen.
They saw every bird feeder filled,
every hand held out in offering,
and every door opened to the unknown.
The ground beneath me rumbles
and the noise of astonished chatter grows
closer from the road.
But the boulders remain unchanged.
I touch the line in the sand.
I think of my own fires and silences held by time
but also the wishes on glowing birthday cakes,
hands held in newfound connection,
graduation caps flying through the air
as a flock of freed starlings.
I add to the line, pushing deeper
into the warmth as each grain slides
away to make room for my creation.
I bend the line, shape it into a circle.
And all the trees and frogs and birds return to us.
The candles are re-lit, hands unclasped,
caps settled back onto heads and breaks
become unbroken anew.
The boulders remain.
I hear the whisper
that maybe I’ve been here before
I’ve never been alone
and I would do it all again.
