Gazing at the night sky, I try to let go of the shapes that I know. Dippers, and hunters, and heroes — bears, sisters, and swans.
I try to relax my focus and invite the night to shape itself.
Without the shapes, the stories can defy words. They are a tale of the moment that cannot be told, only experienced.
The weight of the light, derived of the heft of helium sinking through a red glow, in upon itself, from so far away, that now has no meaning. I see the light in my now, but when did it become itself — the light, the result of an event long gone. Gone without a story.
Too big, too massive is the sky. My mind struggles and loses to the patterns as they reassert themselves. I see the outlines and lose the whole.
So small, we are so very small, in the scheme of things.