Douglas Blaine

Early this morning I dreamt I was laying on the deck looking up at the night sky.

It was chilly and maybe even frosty, but I recall not caring so much. Objects filled in the inconsequential periphery of my vision. They must have been a gas grill, a glass table, deck chairs, and faded plastic children’s sized deck chairs. A fat crescent moon was directly over me–horns pointing left.

Though it was clearly night time, sunset splashed clouds framed the moon in a ragged combination of white, dark gray, orange, yellow, red, and maybe vibrant rust. They were pasted to the thick blue sky, but over time I could tell they were changing. I wanted to capture the view, but I did not want to miss it either.

I had time to go get the camera.

Rushing back out to the deck, I lay down for the same effect as before and saw through the viewfinder that the clouds had sped up–almost to a roil. The the inside-warm camera body and lens drew moisture from the air like that arm-sized magnet my Grandpa owned drew shavings from the soil around his driveway.

What I wanted moved too fast to capture and what I had to capture it with had failed.

Putting the camera down to the deck I watched the clouds suffocate the moon in plain colorless shades until it was unable to even limn the occlusion. The sky was black now and void of stars.

I woke up.

Before we went to bed, your Mother and I had been talking about taking more pictures of you.