It’s a cold spring night, cold as only a clear night can be. You bundle up and drive to an open field. The endless trees of the suburbs subside, at least for a little while. You drive slowly, with your headlights off, peering into every shadow. With a star chart, blanket, and binoculars, you climb to the top of a squat roof. The cold metal saps your heat away. You warm yourself with the blanket the best you can. The field spreads out below you. The heavens extend above you, further than you can imagine. You are staring directly into space. Urban light pollutes the horizons, but directly above lies a deep well of inky black, punctuated by a few dim stars. As your eyes adjust, more and more stars come out. The sky is not so lonely any more. The breeze does not feel so cold. You discover the stars, learn their names, their secrets. The big dipper is obvious, but what stories do the other stars tell? Each has a color, each has a twinkle. Some lone stars are really pairs, you’re surprised to see through your binoculars. You lie on your back and watch them dance: around the north star, one step an hour. As sleep begins to take hold, you see it — a brilliant streak of light, a centimeter against the sky — gone as quickly as it came. You were waiting for this moment without even knowing it. What will you wish for? The stars dance as you put your headphones on. You stretch out, insistent cold keeping you awake, drowsiness luring you to sleep. Minutes go by. You roll on your side — and glimpse another — dimmer, longer, flying low across the horizon. This is truly a lucky night. Eventually you climb down, put away your blanket, binoculars, and your star chart. The harsh light on the dash says 3:55, but these numbers have no meaning. You drive slowly, peering into every shadow. You come home, you fall asleep. You dream about stars.

It’s a cold spring night, cold as only a clear night can be. You bundle up and drive to an open field. The endless trees of the suburbs subside, at least for a little while. You drive slowly, with your headlights off, peering into every shadow.

With a star chart, blanket, and binoculars, you climb to the top of a squat roof. The cold metal saps your heat away. You warm yourself with the blanket the best you can. The field spreads out below you. The heavens extend above you, further than you can imagine. You are staring directly into space.

Urban light pollutes the horizons, but directly above lies a deep well of inky black, punctuated by a few dim stars. As your eyes adjust, more and more stars come out. The sky is not so lonely any more. The breeze does not feel so cold.

You discover the stars, learn their names, their secrets. The big dipper is obvious, but what stories do the other stars tell? Each has a color, each has a twinkle. Some lone stars are really pairs, you’re surprised to see through your binoculars.

You lie on your back and watch them dance: around the north star, one step an hour. As sleep begins to take hold, you see it — a brilliant streak of light, a centimeter against the sky — gone as quickly as it came. You were waiting for this moment without even knowing it. What will you wish for?

The stars dance as you put your headphones on. You stretch out, insistent cold keeping you awake, drowsiness luring you to sleep. Minutes go by. You roll on your side — and glimpse another — dimmer, longer, flying low across the horizon. This is truly a lucky night.

Eventually you climb down, put away your blanket, binoculars, and your star chart. The harsh light on the dash says 3:55, but these numbers have no meaning. You drive slowly, peering into every shadow. You come home, you fall asleep. You dream about stars.

NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY