Northern Lights
BY KATHERINE BECKING
We pause at the entrance, the two of us.
The fieldhouse the last light
before the soccer field’s black frontier.
We plunge into darkness, stumbling forward until the night cocoons us.
Heads tossed back, we study the sky,
waiting, chattering with anticipation,
as the heavens show a hint of red, a glimmer of green.
Others join, coming from anywhere.
Twos and threes, silhouetted against faraway dorm lights.
We call out, trusting they are friends.
The gathering grows, wonder and laughter fill the crisp air.
Cameras turn upward to capture soft colors, starry brushstrokes,
No flashlights are out.
Each completed photo brings new gasps of astonishment.
Hope strikes up a hymn, it catches on,
It dies out after a verse, we hop and stomp to keep warm.
We are cold but no one wants to leave.
More figures emerge, drawn toward our lively cluster.
“Who are you?” we lean in, curious in the pitch-black night,
and then shout names in recognition.
We take more pictures in pairs, in groups, against the spectacle above.
Another batch of friends floods into ours.
Overflowing with awe, we sing the same hymn again.
The cold and dark bring us closer, we dance and embrace,
I hold Nicole’s hands because she didn’t bring gloves.
Distant acquaintances marvel together at this blessed night.
Everyone is walking, circling, spinning, but the group moves together.
The center holds.
The colors are bolder now.
Streaks of pink stretch across the sky,
swells of green glow from behind clouds.
Carleton says these are not really the northern lights.
They’re something else, something from the sun.
This time, we sing the doxology.
Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts
I pull myself away at 10:37PM. Friends wave and yell goodbye.
I walk alone toward the yellow lamps of the fieldhouse.
One of these days, I won’t ever have to leave.