The sun rises in the East and sets in the West.
Yet we all know–though we don’t think about it much–that each setting is another rising and each rising a setting and so on and so on and so on.
For a time we linger in the Twilight, a period of diffuse shadows that lengthen like yawning jaws.
Then it is night. Then it is day again.
What an absurd notion is this little spinning rock? What an absurd notion is this diurnal cycle?
Plants inhale the light and, at night, we may hear their breathy exhalations. Stars twinkle, briefly, but they are always there. But they are not there any more.
Stars are like old photographs, already fading. Grab a star down from the sky, wedge it in an album. Keep it safe. But in the end even the photographs in an album will fade.
Sunlight. Star bright. The moon stares down at us and yet it does not see–for the moon has only craters where it’s eyes are supposed to be.