Ancestor,
that moment you emigrated,
I’m poised to grasp it.
Outstretched, my body taut,
I search for clues unblinking
like you’re a bird I’m going to snap
taking flight.
Or a supernova I have to aim
with the right resolution
in the right place at the right time.
If I could track your events, how would I know
which ones matter? Which stars
explode into supernovae?
What triggered your tipping point?
Did you recollect that after the fact
there’d be little to look at—
a census taking with you gone,
a shaking branch, or
emptiness in the sky?