Nails hammered into the trunk let him climb to the tree’s big branches. He edged out and hung his legs over, swinging them in the air. The sun was on his face. Then he pressed his palms down into the branch, feeling the tension, lifting himself up and pushing out, out, into the sky. He braced his legs, locked his knees, and then he hit. The earth was soft but the jolt was huge, a giant tremor up through his bones, and an impact that forced his thighs into his hips, breaking his pelvis as he crumpled on the ground.
No matter how hard I search, the internet will not uncloud my memory. How many secrets are trapped there, out of reach? I have been searching for a specific edition of a small and rather famous book by the French resistance writer, Vercors. In my mind its cover is blue, but nothing I find confirms my thoughts. The harder I think, the longer I search, the more frayed my thought gets, and the more afraid I am that the truth is not there. It is gone. I am waiting a response from the sky regarding the silence of the sea.
Across the sky, flitting light. Not stars as such, but gilded shards. They continue to fall, piercing horizon upon horizon. Some say they will ignite briefly over the deepest darkest parts of the ocean, to be seen only by the whales and the dolphins as they break upwards from the blue. Some say the shards will spark and burn their way through the atmosphere, burying themselves blackly, finally, into the cold tundras of the Arctic north. Some say they will flicker like fireworks over Hawaii. But no human should worry. The death of one more satellite is of no concern.