Falling Rocket by Amy Cotter

                           Nocturne in Black and Gold-Falling Rocket by James Abbott McNeill Whistler

Over there on the rocky, ocean shore,

will be a show seen like never before.

Come one, come all, the rich folk and the poor;

a spectacle in the sky and the floor.

Copper and teal, they’re colors that intrigue;

they capture the eye with senses that please.

The night sky shows us patrons what we seek:

spontaneity; speckles of the free.

A sharp whistle creates dots in the sky,

making the heads gaze on up at the fly.

Noticeable shapes appear first up high,

then break apart at the blink of an eye;

those fireworks from the fourth of July.

What’s left are clusters, small balls of bright light,

going down towards the earth in great flight.

Rather than run away, overcome with fright,

we watch them dissolve, swallowed by the night.

Tucked in the cove, reflecting the show,

the ocean; a mirror in the flow.

Not as distinct, portraying a fine glow

lighting up the earth, laying down below.

Synchronized in dance, the crash of the waves,

contrasting the sparks falling on the cave.  

The mist lifting the bold copper to pave

a spectacle for the home of the brave.

“The Falling Rocket” dance seen from the sand,

both above and below was his great plan.

Believed not to have come from this vast land;

staring with amazement as it all panned,

a show from imagination of man.