My phone just pinged to tell me the International Space Station is passing overheard so I hauled myself out of bed onto the terrace.

It’s warm out, still in the middle of a heatwave, but night and gently breezy. It’s actually really quite nice. There’s not a cloud in the sky and the twenty or so stars and planets are on point, sharp. Jupiter is twinkling!

There’s a few planes winking red white, high, skating the top of the troposphere. Oh and there it is! The ISS. Golly that’s going faster than the planes. It’s just a node of white following the arc of the upper atmosphere as I’m looking at it. Up. Outward. At the galaxy.

I guess it’s a strange thought: we unlikely beings of supernova stardust, creations of the universe, built by carbon chemistry and time, nonetheless of the universe yet looking back at it. That’s egoic I know but also a bit beautiful. You know, that here I am and there you are, and when we look up at the night sky, we are the universe looking back at itself. We might be the only eyes staring at creation and wondering.

Don’t feel like anything tonight. Can’t see anyone else in the square watching. I’m not sure I’d like it more if I had company. People are so loud and busy. The space station has crossed the sky already. I’ve picked out Jupiter and Mars and I think Procyon.

Ah and there’s the moon, bright and waxy, serene, no, not that: lambent… Good word, somehow enriched in my head by the lamb, which evokes William Blake and his beautiful illustrations. The Tyger. Who came to tea. Night night. On our little rock, spinning and circling and hurtling. FALLING through space.

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