by J.L. Conrad
The meteor throws its weight against the atmosphere. As if someone lit magnesium on fire, only brighter than any day you have ever seen. There is not yet a name for this. Across five states, people come out of their houses to stare. I thought a transformer blew one says. I didn’t worry. The police lines are deluged with calls. They have nothing to say in return. Reports come in of babies arriving early, cows that cannot be righted, a mouse with two heads. The good news is our dog comes home again: a little worse for the wear, bedraggled and somewhat apologetic although her tail cannot stop wagging.