Morning Sky
The morning sky, pre sunrise, is so clear I can see the sharpness in Orion’s jaw.
It’s cool, not cold. Low enough in temperature that I’m wearing my bathrobe, but no sweatpants underneath. Coffee warms the smooth ceramic in my hand as I walk into the darkness. When I look up, the stars shock me. It’s been too long since I’ve paid them any mind.
I take measured steps between glances skyward in search of a window through the canopy. I stop under a dogleg shaped vantage.
Stars have always captivated me. They’re the perfect conjunction of scientific and whimsical creativity. What was once a mirror to our ancient progenitors has lost its opacity, but the remnant reflections are in our stories and in the awe we feel at seeing Orion’s pursuit.
A shooting star glows, brightening to rival those that wear the name rightfully then fading within a second. Do I make a wish? Before I can decide, two satellites cross one another’s paths like ships in the night. Maybe my mirror and window metaphor is incomplete. We have cameras looking back at us as well. Modern eyes gazing downward more ardently that we gaze up. It’s like we discovered a two-way mirror then became disappointed upon finding no one on the other side.
I see a third satellite.
My neck starts to ache, so I support it with my hand. The dark ground suggests it would be nicer to lay down, but somewhere in my mammalian brain I worry about insects, itching, and snakes. I return my eyes to the sky. The ache blooms. I rub my teeth together in contemplation.
It’s either call it early or face some discomfort.
I lay down. Thin weeds join the canopy in my periphery. A tickle against my bare calf tries to lure my attention, but I’d anticipated it. The canopy has holes, as if the trees are eager to show me their favorite star.
The north star is so conspicuous it makes me uncomfortable. Shouldn’t it blend in? All the other stars have groups, friends, but the north star stands alone. It’s taken center stage, but that is its own burden.
The dogs, apparently having missed it in the moment, realize I’m on the ground. Hamburger[1] gets to sniffing across my face while Petunia gets the zoomies. I retrieve my mug from its precarious position as the hundred pound chow speeds around me. I laugh, but only because she didn’t step on my balls. That would have resulted in a distinct sound of its own.
Calm returns, leaving a pleasant smile on my face. This is the life I want, after all. Even if it comes with the risk of testicle damage from time to time.
A fourth satellite crosses my small section of sky. When the fifth follows a moment later, I laugh. It comes out hale and hearty, like I’m competing for warmest chuckle. It’s the kind of laugh that is only coaxed when safe. I decide to stop counting satellites. It makes me sad for some reason.
Ham slurps at some grass a bit too close to my ear. My leg begins to itch. I know it’s not a bug, but the idea flashes across my imagination.
“Hamburger, please.” My request is more exasperated that ideal, but after some convincing she complies.
Soon, the sun begins to rise. It’s not the colors that change first, though I’m color blind so we can’t be sure of that. First, the deepest stars, or at least the dimmest, fade. They disappear so smoothly that I’m not sure if I saw the moment they were gone. It might not have been a single moment at all. Maybe it was a series of instances, glued and pressed together by seasoned hands, like wood planks turned into a table.
As black tips to the faintest shade of purple, I notice the north star. Even so confident as it shone, it’s dimmed by its nearest brother.
From the Rift,
[1] Yes, we have a dog named Hamburger, she also goes by Ham or Hammy.
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