I was exhausted from the weekend, having volunteered to work the late shift at a fundraising casino that kept me up beyond 3am two nights in a row, but the prospect of a rare geomagnetic storm wrestled me away from the siren-song of my fluffy duvet.
I drove north. North, because I always imagine this will somehow get me closer to the ethereal green wilderness, and north, because it’s my speediest exit from the orange glow comforting a million city dwellers in the night.
I had procrastinated going out, waiting to see whether my bed’s call would convince me, but once in my car I could no longer wait for dark country skies and stopped to grab a test shot that confirmed the intensity of the green despite the urban interference.
I cruised back roads and clusters of homes too small to merit village titles seeking the perfect merger of liquid light with landscape form. What I hadn’t anticipated was a layer of cloud reminiscent of the gentle bed covering awaiting me, blanketing every view. I made frustrated test shots, just to have something of this rare storm, my overtiredness damping my thinking enough to prevent me from scanning the sky for the holes in the sheet that would have pointed me southward.