THAT'S A BIG STORY IN THE SKY

The night had arrived and the way was made through a neighborhood and down a small street. A few of us traversing by foot to go see others, to meet with friends and I looked back into the sky and saw the light. This light was accompanied by the smoke and it was a firecracker (something like in Kerouac) and it echoed and boomed through the houses a wonderful popping noise but at the same time, an instant before, the popping had come from an underlying dense sound, thick, guttural, and full of prowess. In all the history of the world and before it, and in all the future, and even present, there can be one moment that takes one out of time, or into the newness. I liked the smoke as much as the fire-artifact. And a firecracker can be likened to a flower, no? The middle is the middle, and the long part, the trail, is the stem,- it has come from the earth and is ascending to the sky,- it arches over just a bit,- like a flower in the breeze, in the wind, in the rain, or even the sun,- for its weight,  or even for not,- maybe for the simple and nuanced imperfection of all things,- the imperfection,- like a small scar, a mole, an slightly uneven gait,- that makes life interesting. In any event, there is was, and it lit up the suburban landscapes for a few instances, - roofs, curbs, trees, boulevards, vehicles, other, - all handsome, curt, succinct. There is nothing wrong with it. My grandfather would have liked it all, and perhaps can see it. He, quiet, unassuming, pensive, would perhaps offer a remark such as Ohhh, or, That is a big story in the sky!, and the way people from the South, or the old South, meaning social worky and slightly old but new left nomenclature for South of the Equator, not American South, would use words, so quietly remarkable and salty of the earth, colloquial, - like how ‘story’ means event, happening…firecracker in the sky.  I turned my head, continued. The firecracker now a ghost, the smoke its astral imprint, the smells, worldly. I continued on. Houses. Then the destination. People, the clinking of glasses. I thought back for an instant of the firework, and realized also that it reminded me of the famous painting, my favorite, called The Falling Rocket/Nocturne in Gold, by James MacNeil. Then, the clinking of glasses, the hum of conversation, the small fire, contained and again, in its own way, lighting a world around it, - stained fences glowing, green lawn being a bit more green in the sudden light. And we trail into the dark also, in our own way, going and going and soon gone enough.