Local Bubble...

I'll bottle you yet, damned elusive sublime thing that climbs inside and mocks the day with immodest eyes and molten core. Mark my worms! Your camelback knife-edge prickling skin tricks are mine. I'm chasing those blue-green jackrabbits over blowing grass ridges, under clear lakes, splicing into electric braids of nerves and root hairs, end to end, tiptoe rib vistas, black jungle vines, bolting across a red-orange thorax full of neatly combusting suns. I'm bagging your rhythms, breathing your gasses, logging your architecture, jam jars of aerial ecstasy and subterranean secrets. All of it.

("Oil Spill #13" by Ed Burtynsky)