Perhaps poetry is another of science’s deepest roots:
           the capacity to see beyond the visible.

A cool breath before early July dawn, the sky purged
of clouds. Walk the road through the National Forest,
the gate gone where Keep Gate Closed is still posted.

Sensing a lack of essentials for a future we are casting,
we are coding a scaffolding of prosthetics, a barricade
of entangled brush blocking a more distant landscape.

Some signs may be ignored, but symbols need to be
taken seriously. Cairns sit where the path is not seen;
while on a high ridge, civilization is heard from below,

as the sun floats
up like an
                 egg.