It is the warm dark of August and the stars are falling. They bloom and float down, shooting sparks as they go.
This is it – the end time. I reach out, find Laura’s hand cold in mine.
The falling stars begin to land and shuck their blooms, their alien, seeking lights playing over the meadow. Inside the house, the news speaks of landfalls everywhere, unstoppable. Together, we walk out beneath the sky, two hands clasped, two hands reaching out.
When the stars come down from the sky to a simple people, what can we do but meet them with open hands?