Galaxy Net

It's a cold, dry night 
Out on the edge of town, 
Where not a breath from the wind 
Can be found, which usually whispers 
Tidings of the world's creatures 
From the high desert off to the east. 
Up in space, satellites are talking, 
Planets are plowing through the bulb, 
Radio waves are trailblazing through troposphere, 

Sending out the unbearable 
Jargon of us yammering creatures, 
So dignified in our cause that we assume 
Understanding in every word we say. 
The sky is a certain shade of dark blue 
That only comes as often as the moon 
Permits a halo 'round its alabaster drum. 
I look up at the stars to trace 
Each constellation, remembering 
The mythologies that gave them life, 
When suddenly a green plume of light 
Comes from out of Andromeda's flailing arm, 
Flashes through the atmosphere to crash 
Into the organic antennas of the forest. 
Could it be, that strange calculated signal, 
The message of some distant traveler, who, 
Intercepting the myriad broadcasts from our planet, 
Transmitted a message across the busy galaxy, 
Asking us kindly to be quiet?