Holy Flyin' Cosmos!
The sky is a nice blue, the sunlight is bouncing off little puffy clouds,
a gentle breeze is leading the leaves on the trees in a slow dance.
After a blistering summer the temperature is finally tolerable.
Uhhh ... Whut?
You say a satellite is burning on re-entry into the atmosphere and is expected to break into twenty-six pieces as it crashes in all its conflagrated glory somewhere upon this precious Earth? As big as a bus, you say?
Is that, like, one of those big customized rock star cruisers,
a city bus or the infamous short bus?
Shall I put Cat and Turtle in their crates and go sit in the park for a while?
What do you mean you don't know and can't tell me
when and where it's gonna land?
A communications satellite has gone incommunicado?
Can you tell me what it looks like? NO?! Beautiful.
The last time I saw "space junk" of any note it was hanging
off a middle-aged man who delighted in doing the "moon walk"
as he danced naked across our living room floor.
Which brings to mind another concern: wardrobe.
A giant flaming charcoal briquette may come crashing into
my bedroom some time during the next twelve hours
and I gotta have the right outfit. What should a grown woman wear
if she's anticipating a re-entry?
I won't light any candles; given the circumstances they'd be redundant.
Hey, NASA, just tell UARS to bring a nice bottle of wine.
I'll make breakfast.