Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment

I see shooting stars fleeting like the happiest memories among the myriad, familiar. I cannot sleep without fresh air, no matter the temperature, central air feels strange. I know the moon like a last living grandparent, taken for granted, whispering memories. Outside the night is full of organic dim, rich dark, deep shadows, comfort. I tense, feel trapped in interior darknesses, false blackout, strange quiet. In the breathing night, living creatures never tire of noise making, simply repeating in the darkness: peep, chirp, croak, howl, hoot… sounds of lullaby. I fear domestication.