Meditation on Meteor Showers

Is it luck when I pick a spot in the sky: beyond the halo of city lights, the spot where one will shine in my purview, in the absence of a fingernail moon? I want a star to streak for me. Bleach my sky.

My thoughts race across the things I want. Float between two desires. If a star shoots during a wishful thought, does that mean it’s destiny? The star has given me it’s blessing to pursue.

I am selfish.

I wonder how many specks of burning dust validated a thought. Gave a wishful soul justification. This may be the closest thing I will ever come to religious experience. If a spark will come for me.

I am a blip in this field of black and white breaks. A pixel among a single white spot in our corner of the Galaxy. Wondering whether my will will be graced by the happenstance of a slice of ice piercing the sky where I choose to look.

It was luck that the sky was clear. The moon unapparent in my small scope. Apparently it’s a fingernail tonight. No clouds, no dew, not a Cirrus or a fog. Everything has fallen into place except an answer.

What are the odds a shard will clatter through my piece of the atmosphere the instant I whisper ____? I calculate the mass of our sun, the gravitational forces pulling Halle towards us. 3x10 to the 8th. That’s a number I remember but I don’t know what it is the mass or speed of. Is it conceited to think the sky holds a code just for me?

I want to say I’m humbled. But I’m not. I still steal glimpses at the grey blue blackness that yellows just beyond my fleece knees. It hasn’t come. 20 chances an hour. That one every 3 minutes but I’ve seen 7 in an hour.

A tear in my space time that gives me a split of relief. A blanket of bleach.

Nothing.

30 minutes pass.

I give up.

I am selfish.

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