I am a child of the Milky Way. The night is my mother. I am made of the
dust of stars. Every atom in my body was forged in a star. When the
universe exploded into being, already the bird longed for the wood and
the fish for the pool. When the first galaxies fell into luminous
clumps, already matter was struggling toward consciousness. The star
clouds of Sagittarius are a burning bush. If there is a voice in
Sagittarius, I’d be a fool not to listen. If God’s voice in the night is
a scrawny cry, then I’ll prick up my ears. If night’s faint lights fail
to knock me off my feet, then I’ll sit back on a dark hillside and
wait and watch. A hint here and a trait there. Listening and watching.
Waiting, always waiting, for the tingle in the spine.
Chet Raymo, The Soul of the Night: An Astronomical Pilgrimage
No comments:
Post a Comment