Many night skies are beautiful. And many, a vast expanse of inky blackness—a void.

As a young child, I fell asleep with the sweet and soothing scent of night-blooming jasmine wafting in my open window.

The Santana wind, warm and mellow as vintage wine, caressed my skin on summer nights before fading away at dawn.

At night, the raucous croak of bullfrogs in early spring gives way to the rasping hum of crickets in summer. Each, a serenade of nature’s songs.

I prefer the graceful beauty of glistening stars found in uninhabited places.

Once, in an empty countryside, we slept outdoors during a meteor shower. A warm, clear summer night, perfect for sleeping and loving under the stars. Pinpricks rained down that night. Hundreds streaked across the naked sky. More falling stars than wishes upon the earth.

Another night, the glow of heavenly lights made a halo around a distant mountain as we drove through a desolate desert.

But not all night skies are serene. Sometimes there is an awful, terrifying beauty to the black sky that flashes brightly with the saw-tooth razors of lightning, followed by the slamming roar of thunder, one upon another, like the staccato of rapid gunshots. Then one hopes not to see the frightening snap of wildfire in the distance—or close

by.

Awake or asleep, the night is alive. Slumbering in velvet peace or dancing to the lights and sounds of nature’s music. The night lives.