On Dixie and the Meteors

     In the wake of a front, we bundled. She more than I—though far from fragile, her slight frame no match for the unseasonal chill. We packed mountain chairs out into the eastward darkness; padded them and settled in for the long watch of the Perseids annual passing. You have great sky, she said, as if the heavens that poured over her upturned face were some potential of mine, found in a line traced upon my palm. How fearless we were. Fearless of the bodies that fell burning, wish after wish. Fearless of the one slip that might spit us out into that great expanse; carry us wayward into the morning sun. Fearless, but for the tiny space between our hands, neither of us could cross.