Something stirred in the matrix. The night’s vibrant guitar patterns filtered through the house of ill repute. Her voice a magnet. I stepped into the chill to walk. The late hour asked for a casting eye upon shed projects. Nightwalkers pinged each other to tell of a velvet sky, a theatre of stars.
Her car sailed beyond the tip, discarded treasures piled up. Street lights trespassed. Heads turned skyward in adulation. A luminous white glow appeared, expanding. The mountain, unperturbed by her new friend, let wave upon wave of pure light energy softly brush up against her provocatively. A ghostly glow cascaded in multiples toward the valley dip. Where the rainbows go, I noted. Chasing, scattered streams of wafting light. She paused, flickering with mischief. Lens change. Captured. The night blushed with red, purple, orange and green. I stood clothed against the bitter cold, somewhere between illusion and reality. A place I know well. Silently Aurora Borealis had come to the little fishing town beside the sea. She came again, swaying to each side, undulating like a sheet in icy wind. I laughed, she smiled. A wave of her delicate hand and her rippling curtains quietly retreated. I had seen an electrostatic phenomenon.
Dizzy, free spirited particles escape through the sun’s holey auric skin. A multitude of earthly gases colliding with free spirits in a clear sky equals party. Excited oxygen turns greeny-yellow, nitrogen and oxygen see red. I noted the painterly manoeuvres. Indigenous Australians know her as the spirit of the people. Alaskans know her as the spirit of the animals. Inuits know her as she who guides a soul into the afterlife. I had met her. I knew I would not forget.