The sun is in total exile, the night as dark

as obsidian glass. I check camera settings.

The quiet waters of Merritt Lake search

the heavens for crystal signals to reflect,

eleven p.m. in the sandhills of Nebraska.

Pulsars and eons linger in this cold shell.

One star and then two poke through

the inky sky. These precocious stars

then call up a firmament, a host, a cloud

of white, blue, red flares of repartee.

I hear them whisper We are here.

We have always been here. Wait, be patient,

our stories will light up your camera,

your very marrow, as never before.

And more. We will set your spirit on fire.

I look through star spirals to the Galactic Center,

notice lanterns glittering inside glowing swells

of the incandescent Milky Way. Countless stars

croon Join us. I am bewitched, nothing left

of me but ears and eyes in the darkness.

I wait to feel overwhelmed, insignificant,

the proverbial trivial speck in the void.

But as I eavesdrop, I absorb their power.

The eloquence of the universe

blazes just for me tonight.

Eventually, I remember to take a photograph.