My habit these last few cool, clear nights while feeding the dogs has been to stand at the railing and gaze at the night sky. Tonight I was blessed with a shooting star.
All those long nights working at the chemical plant and I NEVER saw a shooting star. My first was in Colorado about twelve years ago, and since then I've seen dozens. The worrier in me whispers that it's a sign that our world is dying or something, the pragmatist says it's just because we're away from the glare of the city lights, but the optimist in me is louder, telling me it's magic in the sky, a blessing. I choose to believe her.
Each time I see one I feel it's a special gift, sent directly to me, because, after all, what are the odds of looking at just the right spot in the sky for just that split second?
