Light pollution is not an issue where we live. Night after velvety black night, I fling the curtains wide and sleep deeply under skies studded with more stars than there have ever been tears in this world. Gazing out the window, up at the night sky, I often feel like I am an ant crawling around the depths of a diamond mine. Up here, the Milky Way is hard to paint with mere adjectives, harder still to capture with a Canon – you must visit us to see it, to believe the amount of stars that nightly plunge into the atmosphere, trailing dust and dreams behind them.
Until this time of year.
No, light pollution does not increase as fall replaces summer. But we do begin extracting honey, and night after night I am drug from my deep slumbers by vivid dreams of mishaps in the honey house. Honey, gurgling out of the wax spinner, falling in sheets from the conveyor belts, pulsing from the top of the holding tanks. Honey, flowing from broken pipes, coating the floors, washing down the drain along with the loan payment. Honey everywhere.
In my dreams, something always breaks, and I realize it too late, and then I can’t fix it.
And yet little makes my heart sing like uncapped frames of honey do, in the lovely daylight. In the background, the clicks and ticks and whooshes of the honey extracting equipment sing together rhythmically, as comforting as the heartbeat next to you in the darkest hours before the dawn, the one that soothes away the nightmares.
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