Looking Up

Aug 7 2011

I am sitting on the deck

on the edge of the stairs

in perfect darkness

at 2 am.

The dog, at my side

expertly sniffing the air,

ears eager, tail erect.

I am supine

under infinite sky

ablaze with stars.

An incomprehensible number

that goes up and up

as my eyes adjust,

until this small peripheral planet

shrinks to almost nothing.

And all of us

even more insignificant.

When I realize

she’s never once looked up.

Certainly, at me.

At a branch, where her toy was snagged.

But her entire life

oblivious to sky.

Not curious

about where it begins, and ends.

No wonder

at this brilliant pageant,

we are privileged to see

any night like this.

She strains into the distance,

every molecule of her being

on edge

at this electrifying scent.

But blind

to the beauty of the star-filled sky,

lit up

as if some cosmic switch

had been tripped.

So sitting side-by-side

we occupy utterly different dimensions.

Her keen perception

the subtlety of scent

inaccessible to me.

And my awe

the majesty of heaven

she will never see.

We are both earthbound,

puny creatures

in a vast expanding universe.

But while she is content down here

looking directly ahead,

I am curious, restless

constantly questioning.

And always

obsessively

looking up.

True story. And looking more closely at her, I realize that she’s not even anatomically suited to looking up. Her neck keeps her gaze straight ahead, close to the surface:  on a horizontal plane, that keeps her earthbound. Well-grounded, just as a dog should be!