The night sky here in the foothills
Of the San Gabriel Mountains is never
It is salted gray with diffused light from a
Clutter of clustered stars
On the ground called
The Greater Los Angeles Metropolitan Area.
The number of light bulbs there roughly equal
To the human population of the world
Blinking on and off in similar fashion
To the rate of births and deaths everywhere,
At any given moment.
I sit in my car watching the sky,
Peering down at the valley.
Then I turn off my headlights
Who just died?