listening to sizzling Saturnian lightning,
like frying eggs, underwater
I feel my bones
packed red sea-sand,
wrapped by a clear, thin vellum.
As I listen to screeching and wailing of
Saturn's rotation,
I feel the presence of gods.
Atheists claim gods do not exist
Theists insist their version must,
But I, agnostic, merely drift in space,
listening to the song of the universe.
To the drum and thrum of Vela Pulsar,
a frenetic tribal code,
The lilting birdsong
(or squeaking subway car brakes)
of Jupiter's magnetosphere.
And it is in the soundless dust rings
Of Saturn, that for the first time,
I hear the voice of Creation.
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