Green-fringed red curtains hang motionless in the sky and reflect in the lake, framed by purple and stars. An aurora, this far south? A phenomenon rare enough to fill an endless scroll. But it’s camera magic, delivered by Instagram. There’s real magic in the ballfield grass, where I block city lights with a hand and look above the neighborhood trees: a barely-there glow, blowing in the solar wind. The picture I take on my $100 phone is not worthy of a post, so I simply say, I see it. My naked miraculous eyes are seeing collisions—electrons and oxygen alight.
Elliott Fielding writes for the love of words and the challenge of remembering xyr own life with empathy. elliottfielding.carrd.co