gone, gone the sun
at the dark moon’s bidding
throwing but a pure white diamond
through the lunar mountain pass.
the ancients told their myths
through the constellations in the sky,
then medievals framed the light
in storied stained glass windows.
whose myth are we, bedecked with special lenses,
each a private viewer of the morning heavens?
we gather in the cascade meadow
chairs and hats and blankets and devices,
unaware of our repetition of the pagans
gathering to dance away their fears.
come all, divided, come as one
and watch as gone, gone the sun.