It seemed like the whole world was spread out before us from our vantage point atop the sand dune. The gibbous moon was behind our backs, its surreal light casting shadows on beach and ocean. It was still nearly an hour before sunrise, but a sliver of hot pink hugged the horizon to the east. Venus sparkled overhead. Arrayed around it were familiar constellations, dominated by Orion and his brilliant belt.
The Dear Friend & Conscience and I settled onto the cool sand. The only sound was the surf, a mere whisper at low tide. The DF&C saw the first shooting star of the morning and I the second. For the next half hour or so, these fiery bullets zipped across the northeastern sky at two- or three-minute intervals. Not the most thrilling meteor shower of our experience, but no matter.
The pink sliver had grown and taken on an orange-red by the time the last meteor faded, backlighting an ocean-hugging cloud bank that created the illusion of a distant mountain range. Orion and his companions had evaporated into a brightening blue-gray sky and only Venus, now a faint twinkle, was visible when the flickering lights of a jetliner caught my eye. It was approaching from the east. Probably England, perhaps Europe.
The sight of a jetliner high in the sky used to be a thing of beauty for me, a reason to anticipate travels to come and recall travels past. But the lights of the far away aircraft on this morning did not gladden my heart. It inspired only sadness and foreboding.
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