BY ETHAN KIM
Copyright is held by the author.
I can tell by the way stars overhead start
slipping
away like mercurial rivulets, that the world knows
of its own ends. We jumped the gun, I’m afraid.
The weather tonight is perfect, or it would’ve
been
if it were tomorrow. I’ve already seen the
wheelbarrow
brimming with croaking frogs, and the bluebelly
lizard
break its own tail to escape; I’m eager to see
some
real pyrotechnics, like Explosions in the Sky’s
“Your Hand in Mine” — even though it would be a
while
before I’d hear it for the first time, walking a
dog whose parents haven’t been born yet. So now, to
see the Perseids hurtle towards Andromeda with
swords
of pearlescent oyster shell, I am far from
stone faced.
I’ll tell you that a meteor shower is a fleet of
vessels,
the navy of a nation on the cusp of conquered;
not warships
but lifeboats, yawing through the wave of one
particle to
another.
***