Photo

Photo courtesy of David Johnson

On the walls of ancient caves are pictures of stars. Mysterious and silent, eyes peering at us from the gloom of a dark cathedral from the great beyond. Stars fill the void, translucent fish caught in a cosmic net wove in an inky sea of black. One slippery star wiggles through and falls, arching to the ground just over the horizon, not making a sound, not making a cry. Some say stars are to be wished upon, some call them candles lighting a night traveler’s way. Others say stars are the angst of angels, a garden of tears and wishes for empty tummies that need more than prayers to be filled. Or are they eternal flames for lovers’ kisses? A bright yellow morning train pulls them from the night and takes them to a new port as another night beckons them forth, calling them from the firmament of their sleepy ancient, cobwebbed cave.