There, a little right of Ursus Major, is the Milky Way: a man can point it out, the biggest billionfold of all predicaments he's in: his planet's street address.
What gives? What looks a stripe a hundred million miles away from here
is where we live.
Let's keep it clear. The Northern Lights are not the North Star. Being but a blur, they cannot reassure us. They keep moving - I think far too easily. September spills
some glimmers of the boreals to come: they're modest pools of horizontal haze, where later
they'll appear as foldings in the vertical, a work of curtains, throbbing dim or bright. (One wonders at one's eyes.) The very sight will angle off in glances or in shoots of something brilliant, something
bigger than we know, its hints uncatchable in shifts of mind ... So there
it is again, the mind, with its old bluster, its self-centered question: what
is dimming, what is bright? The spirit sinks and swells, which cannot tell itself from any little luster.