0430: the silence swallowed everything in the gulf of night. Uncountable points of light populated the black hemisphere overhead. Once, or twice, or three times in a minute, a white streak pulled my attention to that sector; some were so beautiful they made me smile, lying cozily on my driveway.
Meteor showers are too good to sleep through up here on the mesa, where ambient light is non-existent. My wool long johns and ten-degree sleeping bag kept me toasty through 53 of the sparkling gifts before sleep tried to overtake me. I felt like a toddler on Christmas Eve, though, fearing that if I closed my eyes I would surely miss the finest, brightest, sparkliest fireball of the night.
That would have been #15. A flame streaked slowly across the southern sky, so deliberately that I strained to hear the fabric of the night being torn as an arc of light was traced on blackness. I held my breath; its tail fizzled out like fireworks fading slowly, leaving an aura of sparkles on my retina. A lifespan of one or two seconds — ephemeral beauty, just for those who will watch. Glorious.
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