I love the transition of night. I like to sit in my chair, beneath the awning of the Airstream. The ancient aging stars pierce through the canopy of dark, lighting the way. For what? I let my imagination run with it, wondering what that light is bringing or guiding into the ethereal or this tangible reality I live in. There's a large drop of dew, an element of the warm day we just had, and the cooler night moving in. The droplet chilled a tiny spot through my shirt. I shivered. Among the stars an almost full moon rose into existence casting a glow. The blades of grass glistened with watery sustenance, they swayed with a faint breeze, rejoicing the cool moisture. I watched the clouds through the moonlight, broken, white and gray, fluffy touches of cotton candy smoothly floating in the bright illumination.
What is all of this? It's a typical night, and it's a symbol. A symbol of life and death. The light of day, and the dark of night. The plus and the plus, visited only by the negative to provoke a charge. This transition is how I imagine leaving one side of energy and being consumed on the other side. Our energy never leaving, but upcycling on either side. Karma, I believe, is this fine act.
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