This merest speck,
not even night-glow red
as one might half-expect,

was impact-blasted
off a dusty, thinly windy
planet far from here.

It spent an eon drifting
nowhere in particular —
nearer or farther, year by year.

Then from our sunward side
and nudged by solar wind
or by some sister Fortune's touch

it met our atmosphere
and floated, airborne, aimless,
down into a dreary winter.

Tilts a redtail, sweeping in
to breathe a speck of inspiration
for a life of stealing life.

She glides to landing to our tree.
"Hello, far wanderer!"
I cry

from here below her, glad
but touched by fear.
We may have dreams of Mars

but do not want it here.
Or not to stay.
How could a speck so small

so slowly swept
between two worlds
give sudden rise to dark and rumbling

towers tall
and flashing red with mayhem's malice
there above, beyond the tree?

They cannot be
yet seem to be.
I watch the March wind sway

the budding branch
where clutch her claws
and wonder when our wanderer

will think has come
her time to go —
or feel the need to stay.