You stare at the starry sky for ages, breath held, silent. At last spring has arrived and the air is calm, mild, although it is too soon for the cicadas to puncture the silence with their static. The stars stretch across their dark canvas all the way down to invisible mountain ranges around you; you wait, impatiently, for one of them to break free from their pocket and burst in a fiery arc and extinguish. But none do.
Instead, after so much silent waiting, a new thought appears in the back of your mind: a story, beginning in the pricks of light across the firmament, connecting itself like a game between the stars, weaving bits of mystery onto a blank canvas. You forget about the absence of the shooting stars, forgive the sky its unanswered prayers.
Realize sometimes you get things you didn't know to ask for.
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