Even on the clearest of winter nights, Philadelphia's stars lack the sharp edges of their rural counterparts. Light blurs the sky here year round, leaving me perennially surprised by the army of bright burning flames set into the expanse of heaven that arcs over my dad's farm. The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
Time and space are crumpled and Hopkins' glints shake free from the foil of the universe, light streaming from their edges. Light from Light.
I walked tonight, the sound of the wind shimmering in the trees, hungering for the clarity of those skies. Listening. Listening. Listening. For the Word that set all this into play. Fiat lux....
A view of the Large Magellanic Cloud. Used under a Creative Commons license. Source is here.