A small bird erupts against the clear glass.
He does not see me but the low garden
And lush grass he has just escaped.
Those modern men of early science,
Who worshiped in the church of natural philosophy,
Could not explain the less than perfect
Movement of the spheres and beat their wings
Like birds against the glass of gravity.
They would not believe in one more thing they could not see,
An invisible force undoing all
Of their mathematical symmetry,
Drawing us together like heavenly
Bodies, suspending us in air,
Something else we cannot see but admit is there.