Flashback to the Crab Nebula

In the library, I find the book left backwards, pages turned into a blackout.

Tomorrow you will hear a bird downtown with a whistle like mine.

Memory reverberates throughout a life: wide, white. When we notice it, it dazzles,

dying light of a star that cannot make crops grow, loved only by a lonely cowboy sleeping beneath.

And still we are driven to explore: small fires burn bright; what are you supposed to do when you see the flash?

Split the night open and crawl inside, a sleeping bag that you have carried all day.