Stepping gingerly over the domesticated sastrugi that makes up our deck after two weeks of winter, I unlatch the cover and open it. A moist comforting blanket of fog rises and surrounds me in the chill, dry wind. I slip in. The heat is as bracing as the cold I just left. Leaning back, the vastness of the sky unfolds above me.
Darkness that is the outlines of juniper and pine trees.
West coast air traffic coursing through the sky, navigational lights blinking.
A meteor falling north to south.
Cygnus has almost completed its flight over the western horizon, his beak almost touching the Cascades.
Jupiter shining brightly above China Hat Butte.
My brain soaks in the fact that some of the lights I’m seeing are in real-time, and others have spent billions of years traveling before landing.
Landing in my eyes here in a tub of hot water just west of the middle of nowhere Oregon after a journey across billions of years of space and time.
Makes one wonder.