There is no such thing as silence
or total darkness
not here, snuggled into a bedroll
on Melissa Corey Peak.
I am the last awake
everyone else (over two hundred of us)
is worn from the day,
21st century children
walking into the past
shirts, skirts, shoes all heavy with dust.
My eyes are fixed on the dome
The sky is no flat thing
like back home,
a sheet tacked to the ceiling
grey with fog and light pollution,
Here, it is darkness, lit
with diamonds, blue-black silk reaching down
in all its speckled splendor,
past the horizon formed by hill and treeline
below my body, so that I
so small and significant
am suspended, surrounded
by the gleaming.
The wind, with the smell of cold
sings through our campsite,
sends the summer-dried sagebrush rattling,
and I shiver
shudder, but cannot bring myself
to shield my face
and stop looking at the stars.