I’m not the sun or the moon, though
I dream of being centered. I’m not

an asteroid, powerful enough to decimate
life. Nor am I a galaxy, a system,

a supernova, white dwarf, red
giant, or other creature bending

space to its will. I’m not the star.
I’m no bigger than a mushroom

shaped like a potato. I’m dense.
Don’t mistake me, I’m still celestial,

made from spacedust and magma.
I’m not alone. We travel in packs,

roaming, hungry. And when we reach
an atmosphere, we will burn

through any night sky, catch
all life’s eye. There’ll be no sun,

no moon, no constellation,
only us. Only me. We will burn

like a great signal fire screaming,
“We are here. We are here.”

METEOR by Michael VanCalbergh

Photo used under CC.