We Are Martians

Tread Marks on Mars

So cold there, and dry.
Scientists know this, know it from data
transmitted on radio waves
from bits of metal and plastic
blasted into space, hurtled to Mars.
Hurled like so many stones at abandoned shack windows.
Hurled by children wanting a sound of shattering.

Air is thin but there is wind enough to brush tread
imprints in red dust bare, in time.

How strange the hum of electric servos must sound
whirring in such thin atmosphere,
how drill bits eating old stone squeal
finding traces of water.

Could be there were ponds of it,
rivers of it. Seas.

There, now, sky just leaks away
and we are there watching from here
this heating, warring earth.