The night you were to be born
we drove up Angeles Crest to throw

down blankets and crane our necks
to the north sky, to see just one

we were sure the hem of the dark
would fray its edges—

would fray or burst the seams
of the horizon—I’ve heard

a meteor is only an ancient pinch
of sand, maybe a pure silver dollar

of fire light, scrawling sure arcs
across the sky. Is each

an announcement? We listen—
strident eyes on one dot

in the northwest—
and this is a truth

for life—in rest, remain
focused on a fixed point.

We wait for the luminescence
to write itself across the tents

like orange birthday candles
side long—melted edges

and perfect lines strung across the night,
drawing in a breath, draped

between the ground and the double-
cream moon.