Earthrise holds our attention this hundredth time,
still as every photograph centring earthrise. Those white furls have signature
quality that, post-shutter, separated and accumulated into new cloud. That blue
is the shock absorber for serious meteors, salve for our manmade lunacies,
death of many a ship. Only what do we hear during earthrise? Imagined Miró
guitars from browned off deserts, staccato flocks along January coasts,
interminable destination plaints of invisible freeways? Our own evanescent
ambient, bombastic trekkie trumpets, The Earthrise Music of G.F.Handel? Moon
breezes, barely audible, inside our padded suits? Or just our breathing and the
beeps of Houston?
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