I've never seen the stars, they're all gone now. They've closed their clouded curtains and turned their light away. All that's left is only miserable grey clouds that seep there. Unmoving.
I like to look at the sky every night. It's a canvas smeared in monotone, but it's his canvas. I watch for him at my window every night. He comes after dusk, on a curious plane that resembles a swallow, I've never seen another like it. He directs it with deft movements on the ropes attached to the wings. With a tilt to the left he can send himself soaring, the little plane's propellers making a sweet chirp as they go. The sky must be cold without the stars, as he is curiously dressed. A peaked cap pulled down over his eyes, a wrapped up scarf, a thick jacket, and high boots. All in a spectrum of blue. He carries a green bag on his back, where he holds his treasures. A small white owl follows him as he goes, the only companion in his night.
With the sun gone and only sluggish clouds left, he sets to work. He slows down his plane to a thrumming hover just above the low sitting buildings of my street and starts to open his bag. From within it, he draws a jar. The first time when I witnessed this, I was certain that the jar contained fireflies, as through the clear glass was a multitude of shimmering lights that, when the jar was opened, poured out and spiralled into the sky before scattering to positions that they would occupy for the night.
He would continue to do this for ten jars, each time a whirling light show would rocket up and spearate, with the little white owl following in a silent ballet. With the lights moving in a rhytmic pattern in the sky, he would set his plane down on a nearby roof and sit and watch for the night, is owl whirring round him or perched on his arm. I would watch them too, as they moved ever so slowly in their dreamy manner, but whenever my eyes wandered to him, he was always looking up, as if still amazed by a performance he must have seen so many times.
I've lost count of how many times I've sat at my bedroom window and gazed at the little creatures as they waltzed the sky. I've lost count of how many times I've turned to him, hoping he might see me too. But his eyes never seem to stray from his flock.
Shortly before dawn, as the clouds go from coal to ashen, he stands and takes up his plane. The snowy owl joins him as he takes off. As he rises high to the little lights, he draws net from his bag. Grasping it in one hand he casts it with the other, to which the owl responds with a graceful dives as it catches the other end in its talons and then continues it's lofty flight. He goes one way, the owl mimics him in the opposite. Together, they come round in a neat circle, containing a group of the little lights. With a cluster returned to him, he draws the net back and holds a jar to the opening of the net allowing them to flow in, as if they know it is time to go. Having them safe again in the jar and placed in his bag, he casts his net again. The owl responds and they once again display their ritual.
Just as the sun finally makes its filtering light noticeable, he is done with all his little accomplices back to his bag and his owl patiently gliding around him. Usually he'd set off now, but today something was different. He stood on his plane, it's propellers humming, as if he were in deep thought. Suddenly he turned. He turned to me. He was looking in my direction. I could only stare back dumbly. He hesitated a moment longer, and then directed his plane to my window.
With nervous excitement I opened the window. Tawny hair covered a young face and brown eyes, which searched me with gentle curiousity. I wondered if I should say something, but he held up his bag and took out a jar, smaller than the rest, no bigger than a jam jar. In it was one of the tiny lights. But it wasn't a firefly. A strange creature was in it, no bigger than a mouse with long rabbit-like ears, thick brown fur, tiny feathered wings and a wirey tail with a yellow light bobble on the end. It stared at me with big black eyes, as if unsure what I was. I blinked as the man leaned forward and held out the jar to me.
"If you reach for the highest of ideals, you shouldn't settle for less than the stars." He smiled over his scarf.
Gingerly, I took the jar. The animal ran round in its container, excited by this new change. Before I could thank him, he pulled up on the ropes of his plane and it lifed itself high up with the owl following suite. I watched as he faded through the morning light like a spirit, that would eventually return to its chosen spot.
I like to look at the sky every night. It's still a monotone canvas, but with the hopes and dreams of someone it becomes something amazing. Every night, I take my own jar, and just as he releases his own light show, I release my little creature. And every morning I open the jar, and it returns to me to sleep the day away. As long as there is a little bit of light in the world, I know I can always keep looking high.
