According to Wikipedia, a shooting star is nothing more than the visible path of a meteoroid when it busts through the atmosphere and becomes a meteor. Radio airwaves are littered with songs about shooting stars, much in the same way that the atmosphere is littered with the fleeting “space dust.”
I was out visiting at home last night; I stopped in and got caught up with my friend Faye. We haven’t been to the “opera at the movies” yet, what with all the reunion commotion. We looked at our schedules and decided the “opera at the movies” would have to wait until next year, what with Thanksgiving being so early and all that comes after.
At 8:00 p.m., I decided to mosey on home.
It was dark, with no moon out. I was ruminating, all alone in my dream world filled with sunflowers, tomatoes and a certain farm boy who is always just outside the horizon. I’m not sure what caused me to look up through the bare trees reaching into the slate grey sky, but when I did a meteoroid flashed by.
I don’t believe in signs and magic and lucky pennies. Life doesn’t work that way.
I’m glad I looked up at just that moment, though, because I needed a hopeful reminder of a line of Robert Browning poetry. One of my blog commenters actually reminded me of it, but I keep forgetting.
“God’s in His heaven – All’s right with the world.”
Something I like about living in East Anglia is the lack of extraneous lights. At night, it is dark and clear, you can see all the stars in the heavens. My children now can find constellations. they couldn’t in Georgia or Florida, especially not Italy. A few years ago we went outside to watch the annual meteor shower, and could see them all flashing by in a second of flame before falling to dust on our fields. I’ll miss that, but the children have that memory forever.