By Charlotte Matthews
Two nights ago, the frogs were still making their wild and thick sounds. Outside was misty and bright. My friend came to me and asked me to go watch the stars. As we lay on our backs in the damp grass, looking up, I was reminded of how we seldom let ourselves see such things—a clear sky with stars so sharp—things that tell us something about our smallness. I looked for a long time at one of the bright stars, trying to trace what I thought to be its movements, some pattern it might be making, and, then, suddenly, a much brighter one shot terrifically through the sky, right past the star I had been so intent upon. On the ground like that, our voices were muted, and so, after a few sentences, we simply stopped talking. What I felt was a great ease: everything I knew and depended upon, everything I found fretful, magically rearranged. In our stillness, another world, a world great and far away, was let in. We were given quietude.