Darkness and then light.

I wasn't even looking, in the dead suburban night, and I found a falling star.  Tears wet my face--my spirit, raw and restless, my mouth agape.  I personalize everything: this meteorite belonged to me.  No one else could have seen it, I reasoned.  I felt the black sky tear open as if the star had broken the sound barrier--a heavy, sudden rumbling.  Only, the night was quiet, and only I had been torn open, lying ragged in a metal chair.

The next day, the golden light hit the tall, side-of-the-road weeds.  I drove by a fleet of nervous brown birds, feeding in the ditch, scattering low from weed to weed.  Then, one flew heedlessly into my back tire.  In my mirror, I saw it fall and lay still.  A small red rip in the fabric of the morning.

The fish that don't have eyes because they live in the darkest depths of the ocean.  That darkness and light and not mutually exclusive.  That the human eye can find form in shadows and light alternately, like the gaps between the trees, shining like glowing trunks.

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