in space, the almost-sterile vacuum, amid cosmic radiation,
we multiply, we travel, we pass through

we the probes appear like virus, penetrate, reside for a while,
scan, inventory the planet life, one by one, and then we are gone

a small data set, less than a moment’s send
over light to the tab quartz crystals

over the eons few stand out as outliers, save One,
part of the three, when your world numbered merely 300 million

such a spike is rarely seen, save again some 500 years later,
a blink for us, generations for you, essentially the same story

the data says dine on whatsoever hath fins and scales in the waters,
enjoy Ajwah dates for dessert, and so restore the covenant of the pieces

faith is to speculation as truth is to fact

Chagall 2020