Filaments

"When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,

the moon and the stars which you have set in place,

what is man, that you are mindful of him...?"

Sometimes in the sleepless hours of a cloudless night, I play a game with myself. Staring at the western sky, I attempt to will a shooting star into my field of vision. I mean really, how hard is it for the Universe to nudge a bit of space junk into the atmosphere for me?

The object of the game is to go back to sleep, of course, by loosening those filaments of thought from their tightly wound configuration which keeps me up in the first place. If I focus on the space between the stars, planets, and moons, if I concentrate just hard enough, I might be rewarded with a fiery arc across the heavens. Or better yet, slumber. Or best of all, both.

I'm a tiny speck in the grand infinite. But once in awhile, in the evanescent skeins of a falling star, I feel my power. And then, If I'm lucky, I can dream...