On my return walk home, heading south, not too far from the intersection of Emma and Butterfield Coach Road, I had reached the point in Il Divo’s song “Passera” when the Valkyries and angels began to lift the singers impossibly higher in their harmony. To my left, the high tree-filled mountainside was palely illuminated by an unseen light. Atop the hill stood a single solitary tower, its light blinking impossibly red. Above me, a billowy blanket of clouds was rolling in, barely overlapping the moon. The moon, in response, glowed with a corona of diffused rainbow colors. Slightly below, Orion’s belt and Betelgeuse vividly shone through. Venus and Sirius lurked on the horizon, brighter than normal. As I peered upward, a meteorite streaked down. And another. Even as I lost track of my footing, I laughed out loud, a lone cackle in the pre-dawn nothingness. I wasn’t expecting meteorites this morning and their arrival brought unexpected laughter. I laughed even harder, remembering the old cliché that the most dangerous laugh emanates from someone alone, in the night.
There are times when you know the day cannot possibly be improved, no matter who or what fills the hours of it. Perhaps I’m wrong, though, and a mystery as of yet not fully developed will greet me as the sun rises.
For now, though, I’m going to look out the window and listen to my cat tell me his story in a language I can’t understand, full of purrs and growls.