on the dancing lights of the north

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.

 

2018-09-24T09:40:52+00:00