I was born in a time of falling stars and blue moons. Midweek, midnight, my love and I stood beneath a purple-black sky laced with ghostly finger-wisps. Thick, blank darkness gathered in the west, an ominous emptiness. We faced a bright golden half-moon dangling low on the eastern horizon and watched for rare streaks of fire to scratch the surface of the starry night. To the south, lightning flickered.
The only sounds were a frail cricket chorus and the whispering of ancient spruce towering in a row at our backs. We leaned on each other to stave off exhausted wobbles brought on by days of sand and sun’s heat. Sparks traced the arc of heaven.
Like a fog off the sea, the change of weather drifted across bright planets and pinprick infernos. We thought that rain might come, somewhere, tomorrow. The Perseid sky became a tabula rasa.
Last September, our boat danced dolphinlike on gentle swells as liquid diamonds fell around us, lit by evening light and silhouetted by a wall of shadowy, grumbling power that swept across the rolling sapphire lake. We sat drenched, in awe that magic does exist. Mortals can only own minerals; the moments belong to God.