As stars go, of course it is rather nondescript, small, middle aged stuck in a distant corner of a not all that impressive galaxy.
Yet each morning it sweeps the sky storing all of its kin, even the biggest and brightest, into its own celestial closet where they will remain locked away until it decides it needs a rest and lets them return to once again paint the sky.
She is so often present as the sun makes its daily retreat, we imagine she is mysterious as she hides, or does she take refuge in the shadows.? Only a few have truly seen her and they speak only of her luminescent alter ego.
Lie back, I said to her, just stare up that way stare into the sky without any clear focus. Do you see him now, the hunter with his bow outstretched, the belt cinched about his waist locked in his eternal search for the prey that would free him from his nightly quest. And there, I pointed can you see the great bear gamboling with her child or there a goddess reclining on her heavenly throne. Now she said, that’s not it at all, not even close, look over there, don’t you see a small child crying out for her mother, and there, two lovers locked in an eternal embrace, their lips barely touching, hips pressed together reclining as one, and there, clear as day a cat lying curled as though sleeping in the warmth of a hearth.
In the twilight of the dove, that moment when the sun’s retreat has only just begun my shadow stretches ever so slowly into oblivion.
I hear it whisper to me a promise to return and I want nothing more than to believe it, for the grant of another day is a small wish granted, one I make with the knowledge that the genie of age is growing ever more tired of responding to my unchanging request.
Appearing night makes no promises and the stars consider me and us all inconsequential in the celestial scheme of things
Arising into night the departing sun tangos away with its cloud, memories soon forgotten.
Other dancers take the stage, now a romance, now a war dance, feathers raised in prayer to unseen gods.
Night will soon bring its curtain across this stage, the avian casts’ final bows taken the theater will darken, awaiting another performance, a new script tomorrow, but for this solitary moment of frozen grace, it is we who write the conversation, our lines sung by actors who know only nature’s unrelenting song.
There is nothing like, no words to adequately describe, that moment when a cloud- hazed sun lingers wishfully just above the horizon, grasping the sky with brilliant talons of light, fearing becoming lost in a darkness that will, on this night of the new moon, engulf us all in its inky shroud.
We know, or pray, the sun will return in hours, just as the sun knows its work is never done so long as it has light to give, hoping that final collapse is eons away.
As it finally settles beyond sight, we smile, retreat to the table and consume our dinner and wine, our daily companion forgotten until its dawning return.
Night and the ancients retreat to a dark corner of their celestial prison from the promised arrival of the yellow dwarf from which they know we demand a presence.
We ignore the ancients now, ignore those who cast them into their prison, ignore the acts for which they were banished, care only to name them, and they know that our recognition is their only grasp on existence.
Each day their tiny cousin demands our full attention, defies us to look deeply at him, pleased that he is, for us, the center of our universe.