Transmission

Drinking red wine on the patio,
slapping mosquitoes the color of smoke,
I watch the Milky Way shift east to west
above the roof’s black shingle.

One hundred thousand years ago my ancestors,
beneath these very stars,
invented a glossary of gods to limit chaos.
Mosquitoes died, leaves fell,
the galaxy drifting west.
                                                                                                                    In the liquid gift of night,
I send my signal to the future.
By the time it's reached,
I'll be gone.