An October Sky

25 Oct

I drove home tonight over miles and miles of pavement, passing over endless white dotted lines. But all the while I sat enthralled with the sky above me, a great, starry dome reaching around me on every side. I passed over pavement, but all I saw was this naked sky. Every second I knew it faded, the closer I went into the city. The sky was different somehow tonight: the clouds gathered in wisps, curling around the stars. They felt so close, looked so close, that it seemed had I wanted to, I could reach one hand into the air and bring some of that sky down closer. The stars weren’t bright. They were dim and sparkled infrequently, hidden within the clouds, glowing and content. The moon, meanwhile, also glowed, not a radiant moon but a silent one. The effect from all this struck into me so deeply that I hardly saw much else but the sky. I could have looked at it for hours, basked in its beauty forever. The closer into the city I drove the sky shrunk smaller, and it made me want to turn back around, to head for wide, open spaces. The lights in the city from the cars and the buildings get brighter, obscuring the glow from the stars and moon, and making the clouds seem less close. The gap grows. When I turn onto my street the trees planted in rows, lining the street, reach into the sky, their black silhouettes darkening it, crowding it out until there’s no room left for such a sky. It’s gone now, hidden by houses and buildings and sidewalks and trees planted in perfect rows. It’s enough to make me want to cry.


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