The blue twilight gathers on the mountain, and I must be on my way soon. The waxing moon graces the eastern sky, laughing when I get spun up on Twitter.
Look at the ant spluttering about the cracks in the sidewalk.
It’s time to haul a telescope downtown, to point it skyward and wait for someone curious to walk by and ask “hey man, can I take a look?”
“Please do!”
Ancient frozen lava seas await, along with lunar mountains, and dust billions of years old that holds footprints forever.
I’ve got some new gear that makes the clouds on Jupiter look sharper, not bad for a weather pattern that’s 377 million miles away right now, spinning around in a nine hour day.
I hope we’ll wonder about aliens and God and the meaning of life, and, like any good classical concert, fall silent for the briefest of moments. It’s in that crack the the universe rushes in, patting us on our overheated heads and says “Keep thinking. You’ll get somewhere, but not everywhere, and that’s okay.”
I cut a Christmas tree earlier today, wandering a farmer’s field, admiring the family business that’s been providing Santa with a place to stash gifts since 1966. The cool November air, an occasional beam of sun, and pine needles blanketing the ground wove a hushed morning over the land.
Finally, there it was.
A little spruce with quirky branches, something to hold up a single strand of lights and a few ornaments, like a little patch of the sky in the corner of the room, meditating on possibilities.
So the season begins.
I’m out. It’s almost dark, and Jupiter is dazzling in the deep blue.
Josh