What stars there are huddle in the middle of the sky, aloof and maybe afraid of the city lights, they push through still because the moon has abandoned them, the clouds have abandoned them, the people, warm in their houses, have abandoned them.
Like us, they each have a name, a story, a backstory, the real story, the wrong story and the story told by the others in their constellations. These are the tales of the builders of our universe. Getting to know them, after all this time, seems like a good idea.
So, I prepare to sing the song of the ages; take a few extra-deep breaths and start composing a couple of new verses; maybe tweak the melody of the chorus a bit. Yes, my voice waivers, as do the stars, as does the bitter wind, but the song remains. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.