The tiny bright points
in the black night skies
are known as stars. We are
told they are like our sun but
millions and millions of miles
away. I have no evidence
to dispute this.
But, really? Millions and millions
of miles? My world is too small,
but I didn’t fall off the turnip truck
yesterday. I prefer them to be
the light of God, piercing the canopy
of darkness we call night.
Not much light, against the
omnipresent electricity of this
century, but enough to reassure us
that God is out there, and
night is not permanent.