I set up my beloved theodolite And slowly, gently, aimed it at the moon, Then focused sharply on the lovely site, Which put its fragile eye piece well in tune. As always, it was truly great and thrilling; It tends at first to take away one’s breath. I’d even say that it was almost chilling, Considering the expectation’s stress. Now, I had seen this stunning show before But this, my youngest son, had not and turned From left foot to the right and then some more As pure impatience in his body burned. When I had managed the controls just right I checked and, yes, the spectacle appeared: The view revealed a giant disk of light--- Lit orb of heaven---by lovers oft revered. The moon, as pretty as it mostly is Just played the backdrop to the major show: The shadowed passing of no ghostly frizz But sharply-imaged birds’ migration flow. Some came in groups, while others flew alone, The larger birds with stately beating wings, The little ones by jerks of effort blown Then up, then down, in spurts they flew in strings. I quickly spied my son; he was engrossed. His faintest smile was for me quite sublime. He was real still and though his eyes were closed--- I saw a tear… Evoked my own first time. Leo Zoutewelle was born in 1935 in The Netherlands and was raised there until at age twenty he emigrated to the United States. After retiring in 2012 he has written an autobiography and two novels (unpublished).