Litany for the Spacefaring: REAL

Patron saint of small bodies with dangerous errands,

you patrol the skies where invisible storms glitter.

You feel bright knives slipping from heavenly machinery,

their scattered paths to freedom your unbecoming.

So much love is like this: puncturing, fleeting,

a signal pulled from static before it dissipates.

You hurry along your post at the edge of darkness,

brief as a vow made in the face of extinction.

O REAL, bless the little voice that survives

to sing the litany of lost creatures.