Mile 850 of Upper Mississippi, just north of Caruthersville, MO – November 17, 2012
I lay next to the Looksha on a giant sandbar, staring at an open sky of stars, waiting for meteors to streak across the darkness.
They say that the Earth passes through an old comet’s tail every November, that those little flecks of rock and ice spun off long ago to burn across our atmosphere as we hurl through the comet’s wake, but laying on a sandbar, it doesn’t matter why. I just want to watch shooting stars.
To me, the beauty isn’t in the cosmic origins, it isn’t in a comet’s tail, or the Earth’s orbit around the sun. The beauty is in the fleeting unpredictability, the sense that if you close your eyes for just a moment you may miss something extraordinary or you may miss nothing at all.
But you have to stare, to fight against weariness, fight against all desire to sleep and give in, fight for nothing more than the hope of a moment’s wonder.
What else can you ask from the world than that?