A good night for flying

I've been terrible about posting recently. I know this. That's just what my weeks have been like. Anyway, I'm going to try and catch up now (believe it or not, I'm about to have a reasonably light week!), even though I've forgotten things. So this is the first of a rapid fire posting attack about my past couple weeks. Time travel to, uhhh, about two weekends ago...

I have five favorite places on campus. Three of them are in the Arboretum. A few blocks past South, through those nice neighborhoods, the arb encompasses two small ponds, several streams, at least two bridges (a fallen tree decorated with ribbon fungus layers and ferns, and a manmade flatbridge with the words "all good teenagers take off there close" graffitied in blue), a nice woodsy area for walks, a fire pit (with two beaten up lawn chairs facing off across the coals), and a bare hill surrounded by trees. As I'm walking down to the water, two signs make me smile every time:

No Public Parking Beyond This Point, Pedestrians Welcome.

No Parking, Dusk-Dawn.

Last Saturday night/Sunday morning, in the stillest part of the night, when sensible people were snoring and even the most determined insomniacs were slumping off to bed, our motley crew made it's cheerful pilgrimage to the Arboretum. There were seven of us, all Northerners (with a few honorary Langsta Ganstas that have been absorbed by the Lounge) walking through neighborhoods where the streetlamps lit up our breath and eager faces. The noises of life quieted to crunching leaves, soft voices, and the occasional burst of laughter. Julia and I hummed to ourselves, and sometimes traded in whispers and Looks broken by giggles. Mark zipped along beside on his bike, belting out 70s pop tunes, and Alyssa told us about her Llama book, as we made our meandering way to the Hill for poetry and stargazing.

When neighborhoods gave way to woods, the stillness was almost perfect. There was no wind, and in the suspension of movement and sound I felt the bite of cold air zing through my lungs. When we got to the edge of the reservoir I lagged behind. The water was glass, and in it a second set of stars lit up the world from below. Around the edges of the water, the silhouettes of leaf-bare trees stretched out their limbs. The world in starlight was made of gray, textured with gray. I leaned out over the edge of the water and narrowed my vision until I was sandwiched between the glittery blue-black worlds, and I spread my wool-encased fingers wide. It was a good night for flying.

We tottered around the edge of the water and through the woods, holding on to each other and relying on memory when sight escaped. Stephen, Rosemary, and Jeff were already settled in at the top, their flashlight a tiny pinprick in the black. I spread out a fleece blanket beside the others. It -popped- as it whipped the cold night air, and floated down to the grass. Each of us laid down our offerings in the center; Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Lord Byron, ee cummings, William Blake. I lay back on my blanket and let my bones flow into the ground while I looked up at the stars. There are so many stars to see in the Arb on a clear night.

The first shooting star took us by surprise. Those of us who saw it felt blessed, its silent arc of light burned in our minds after it faded. The next soft gasp was a wonderful coincidence. Two in just a few minutes! After that, the sharp intake of breath signaled our eyes to follow fingers without any need for explanation. I heard someone say recently that a couple Saturday night/Sunday mornings ago, there was a great meteor shower that you could see really well, 'cause it was so clear out. At the time, I knew it was magic.

That night I learned that:
Julia, Stephen and Rosemary are fantastic poets. They each read some of their original work, which ranged from cheeky to poignant, and I hope to hear more of them.
If you're cold for long enough, you forget you have a nose and the shivering stops.
Shakespearean sonnets become a lot more sexy when recited in whispers.

Back in the present: It's been raining on and off all day. Right now it's on. The sky is grumbling, and everything is dark. Doug, who lives in my dorm, is playing banjo somewhere in the distance. I hope he knows that at least one person is listening to him, and smiling.