All the stars in the sky

We got up early at the House of Hope hoping to catch a few meteors flash; no luck this year.  I remember getting Issac up when we lived in Italy to watch from our balcony (Justine wouldn’t join us, “too cold” she said). We wrapped up and sat in our camp chair and watched the stars fall. The mountain behind our town was looped with small villages so it seemed from time to time something fell and joined the lights sparkling on the sides of the hills. We also huddled under blankets in our backyard in Groton watching hundreds of meteors before we froze out. In Klamath I know there were many times out in the yard, watching for meteors and eclipses, full moons and so many stars. I do have this poem from one year, we had two dogs then so it was quite a while ago:

Falling Dogs
 
Here before light, the cusp
of dawn brings meteors;
falling stars though it is too cold
for wishes. I listen to the dogs
patrol the perimeter of the yard,
their tags chime to the coyotes’ song.
These dogs are old,
and from juniper ringed hills,
they pay no attention to this music.
Their noses are alive to every creature
that has passed overnight, their last
throwback to wild. Their ears
pick up the nuanced yelps
and yips, the lone awoo
that fills the darkness with laughter;
they are unconcerned with the other,
their sameness separated by millenniums
by houses and filled bowls and a hand
that knows how to rub an ear.

This morning though, though the sky was clear and there were a lot of stars, we were greeted only with cold. We stood quietly in shadows as one of our neighbors came out her backdoor and did something by the porch. I have certain voyeur tendencies I adore walking at night and stealing glimpses into people’s homes. When I use to ride Greyhound, I loved the late night ramble through small towns, wondered at the few lights on and reveled when I could peek inside and see someone reading or talking or lit only by the blue of a TV screen. Just a quick flash into those homes, that life. Because we live in a neighborhood full of houses the moments as dusk is settling offer these glimpses often. I always want to stop and watch, I want to measure the warmth in the house by witnessing. I know that most if the “action” will be mundane. Some will be very boring; there is always the fear of some horror or hurt. Sometimes a quick view is all that is needed. As my neighbor went back in, I saw her husband walk past and touch her arm. 

And then we turned away, walked toward the front of the house, shivering a bit and holding hands.