It is 10:45 P.M. and I am sitting on the backyard lawn exactly below the big dipper. My long skirt billows around my legs. The grass is soft and smelling of spring. I'm digesting orange chicken and a pleasant production of Jane Austen's Persuasion. The temperature is ideal; there's that tangible twinge present in the still, silent air in which cooler months linger and warmer months are promised yet.
The mountains are always striking and sublime against an unobstructed, glittery sky like this one. But still it's the stars that are compelling—they catch my gaze and stretch it far above and beyond whatever perspective, probably narrow and frustrated, I'd assumed throughout the day just ending. They promise constancy and unthinkable goodness for now out of reach—but until then they thoughtfully look down, waiting and somehow always understanding.
Even when I'm thumbing mosquito entrails off my laptop screen.