Arctic Oscillations

What might describe the beauty that we see,
Adorning a rarefied autumn night,
More agreeably than some poetry
Of amalgamative inkhorn delight,
Which we may flex like unbound muscle
Cooling itself in the midnight air
Waiting for an inspired crepuscle
Of Borealis churned by solar flare
And twined for another magnetic dance
Through the upper reaches of polar sky,
Where only zephyrs and angels romance
To the music of the spheres drifting by,
Which, as often as not, from orbital flights,
Are the telemetrics of satellites!