Tiffany Lee
I watch as the sun crouches low over the trees, stirring final swirls into the ice-cream-sundae sky. It’s already half-melted: butterscotch splashes against strawberry, which splatters onto cherry, which oozes into orange sherbet.
The stars frolic in, one by one, consuming the delectable dessert until only the black bowl is left. It’s a young, clear night, and they make the most of it. They flash and dance and make impossible spins, each star trying to outshine the rest. The busy lights refract into a twinkling explosion through my glasses. Only Polaris stays still in his northern corner, watching over his boisterous brothers. Ah, youngsters, he thinks. They just burst with energy.
The dance goes on and on—these performers can never tire. The wind plays a jig, drumming against the leaves. I feel my feet tapping along. This isn’t sophisticated music, but it’s more alive than any orchestra. It’s alive with the woodsy tang of the forest and the low purrs of unseen animals. My heart pulses along with the stars.
Without warning, one of the smallest stars falters; he starts to lurch, he seems to be falling…but then he reignites in laughter—he was just teasing! Mother Moon glowers at the trickster, but he pays no mind, returning nonchalantly to his dance. The other stars try to outdo his daring. They flash brighter, faster, occasionally leaping so quickly that I can’t tell if it really happened. The wind drums faster. A thousand branches bang against each other. An owl joins in. The stars dance faster still.
Then, suddenly, it all slows down.
I watch as the dancers spin their last spins and bow reluctantly—no one wants to go to bed. Then, the first spoonful of cherry sherbet drips across the sky and, one by one, the stars exit the stage.
