Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

It's hard to tell that the face of the moon is as much like a man's as god's. Out yonder, in the world without us, who's to say? — Either we get in the way, or things make use of us. Half-way around the globe from where they started, the static sound of starlings echoes off the barn roof. Spider weave in the spokes of wheels, and stars circle unsuspecting suns. Little do we know, the world has a talent for making itself at home. Meanwhile, we paint our self- portraits on everything imaginable, then hold them up like mirrors. Our mercurial brushes grow longer, our skills more acute. Dust clouds the vision, tinder to the eye. So we burn trees to save the forests, burn air to fly afar. We do, we say. We can. The time is close at hand. Time was (said a man) you could tell the weather from the moon. That was before another broke   the quicksilver distance and walked all over it. Now you can't tell a thing.