Sat out at night.
The temperature is easy, even with a cold, sinewy night air that seems to be slithering over the land. The grass is wet and cold, vibrant with sensation. Stars. Clouds.
The stars that hold the shape of a lark have set for the season and other constellations have gained their ground, giving the night sky new stories, new pictures.
Peepers. Crickets. A motorcycle.
Everything is so fresh, real, alive. Unapologetic life, just as it is - exquisite.
A lark constellation hangs in the night sky, beating its wings as it lifts off the ground. Everything I love, this whole earth, is under the lark.
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