Well, it wasn't quite in the requisite time slot. It was a little after
one o'clock this morning. The wind had died. Quiet had returned. I
stood there at the back window looking at the westerly sky. Orion was in
full view. Where others find comfort in the orientation gift of the North
Star, my eyes almost absent-mindedly follow Orion's belt to the right to
find the Pleiades. Unless I need to know directions I am most happy to
see the Seven Sisters. Alcyone, the brightest; Electra, the one on the
far right, and I usually pretend I can find Maia, even without binoculars.

They are there some millions and millions of miles away. An oddity of
the time of night puts them directly above the cone of light that shines
on the flag in the cemetery. It is another rare thing, it is the only
light on the westerly part of the prairie. For a change all the porch and
barn lights are unlit. The silver sliver of ground fog on the newly
plowed fields is there to hide the many creatures of the night. Many
nights we pretend it is the wind or an owl or a distant fog horn that
wakes us, but when we noticed the noises are most numerous when the ground
fog is thickest we knew we had found an answer. I would need the green
flashlight if I were to go out at this early hour when the fog is that
thick--just to be sure.

Jupiter? The bright light near the 'Sisters must be Jupiter. The hole in
the clouds seems larger. The ground fog but a whisp of a layer; not thick
enough to provide cover for things unknown--unseen is unfeared? I got my
faded blue jacket, gloves, stocking cap--crept into the bedroom for wind
pants, muttered "Nothing" to a murmured "whatare..." from somewhere 'neath
the covers and went to the back door.

Nothing stirs. If the owl sees me, it pays no mind. A few of the cows
might turn their heads, but no mooing is heard. The stars and a fraction
of a moon give enough light I can follow the dashed line of the road as it
leads me to the landing. The sound of the rocks being pushed and rattled
starts the guessing about the tide--is it going out or coming in? Each
wave's whisper is followed by the rattling of beach gravel rearranging
itself for the new day. Footprints are being erased; yesterday's echoes
no longer there to follow--I am left on my own to find my way up the prairie.

In daylight I would have greens and blues, yellows and browns, and even
greys and whites to color my way. In this half-lit world of stars and
moon I have only variations of darkness... and one coyote that might, or
might not, be announcing my passing. It doesn't sound that close. The
green light has not been turned on. The ground fog is still a mile away.

If I had been a half an hour earlier the lights on the outbound freighter
would have been counted, length guessed at, destination fantasized about,
but now it is well out in the strait. All that registers is that it is
outbound--red light on the left, a green light on the right, or port and
starboard, in case some seafaring sort is listening. The lighthouse on
the Dungeness Spit blinks, answered by a flash from Point Partridge. In
between them, across several miles of never still the lights of Victoria.

There is never darkness. A light is carried, but not yet needed tonight.

In the time it has taken me to get to the upper prairie trail the trees
have risen to block the stars I came to see. Only Sirius is still in
sight. With Jupiter dropped below the tree line, Sirius resumes its role
as the brightest light in the night sky. The trail's turn has put Polaris
straight in front of me. Two bears in the night sky--their presence has
comforted travelers long before the glaciers built this prairie I am
crossing. I explained to them once that I can find my way here and they
could go help someone else, someone astray. A silent twinkle that I
could not interpret was sent from so far away I was not born when it
started its journey.

At the cemetery our country's flag sleeps in its cone of light. The
headstones it watches over tell of seafarers and soldiers, mothers and
children, priests and pilgrims, all gathered here to wait for the next
step in an untold camino. I passed on pavement's edge, not wanting to
disturb the quiet with the crunch of running on the gravel. If I had
left a light on I would be able to see our back porch. I did not. The
darkness of night should only be penetrated by stars, lighthouses, and
an occasional not quite seen flash from the ground fog over the newly
plowed field. The field is just far enough away that I do not need to
show the green light to whatever's eyes just blinked. The protection of
the headstones is left behind. The back door is an unprotected half mile
away, but there is no wind to move the fog and unprotected does not mean
unsafe, tonight.

Thanks for the star trip, John.

Miss these .

+1 - Thanks for searching, Valerie.

Yeah, miss the stories.  RIP John M.

I met John M. over in RWOL. His avatar was a Camino de Santiago sign. I had done some of the Camino and we chatted about it. I see there’s a Camino reference in this post.

When a running friend died of cancer a little while ago, I introduced him to John M. (In my mind? In the afterlife? I dunno, wherever trail runners go when they’re not here any more. It seemed like they would get along).