Walking barefoot on my lawn late at night, feeling the warm summer breeze on my legs and face as I discern the planets from the stars. The cool green blades poking up between my toes and giving way to my heels like a plush green carpet.
Ursa major and Cassiopeia wink down like old friends. The city lights are too bright where I live to make out the other constellations, but their component stars fade in and out like snippets of conversations overheard at a giant, cosmic party.
I used to be able to 'hear' more. Time spent in farm fields, forests and boats during my youth netted me a greater understanding of the sheer vastness of the night sky. Back then the stars used to shout at me. Now they only seem to converse with each other in their own foreign language, without pause to see if I am keeping up. I still endeavor, knowing that if I lose the magic of the stars that I will lose a large portion of my childhood that is still precious to me.
It's ironic that the more we learn about how big our universe is, the less of it we can see.
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