Do you see them?
It’s like the heavens hold the last sparks of a fireworks display in freeze frame.
As if someone ripped holes in the fabric of the sky to let pinpoints of light shine through from Whatever Waits just behind it.
We look up and we search them like we search the face of a traitor or a lover and we’re trying to figure out which one it is. We tear our eyes away, more mystified than we were when we first looked up. And we go back for more.
Scientifically, we know what they are: they are great spheres of fire, spinning end over end billions of miles away, powered by combustion and their own unrelenting velocity. They pull bits of the universe around them and turn them like tops in unending spirals. They roar into the blackness around them, spewing fire like dragons.
But to us, they are as silent as diamonds on velvet. Their collective song does not reach our ears. Yet without them, the world would hush, unless the rocks decided they must cry out.
And we stare up at them, wondering how the windows of all the planet’s bustling cities could be scattered like dust and stay forever frozen in the icy ocean we call the sky.
We stare and we wait.
And so few of us know exactly what we’re waiting for.