Perseid. “What’s the difference between a shooting star and a meteor?” she asked. “I don’t know.” “We don’t know much about the world.” Looking up is sobering. The direction least looked in the Age of Screen. Darkness and quiet but not black. Not pitch black. The moon shrugs and hits the power button.
Dogs bark in tandem with our voices. I25 searing beast, a roar of metal and machine that dominates the surrounding hills, buffering endlessly against the will of man. How nice would it be if it all went away, at least at first? Progress is a peculiar thing. It will probably kill us in the end. But until then I’ll be looking up.
The first one comes in hot from northeast to southwest, low on the horizon. Like someone waving a magic wand. I’ve never seen a meteor move like this. The first one, undone and under the belt. Sputtering and cooling off as the atmosphere chalks up another win.
Up high, sporadic fits and starts. Flashes from the corner of the eye. And then comes the gift. The slow burn. Left to right, west to east, at highway speed. The object itself changing form as it dies a slow and beautiful death. “Look,” I say. We both have the time to watch it cross. A gift. Time. The beginning and end, together forever.