In the wind, the leaves of the poplar tree sound like rainfall. You listen to them crying their ever-falling tears, and your heart feels their ache. The beauty of the invisible rain, and the tiredness behind your eyes make you weep.
Though it is late, already far into the night, the outside world is not black. The moon is full, and it shines like a ghostly sun, reflecting old light into what would be darkness. You lie in your bed and you stare out the window and you watch it ride the sky. The cold summer night washes over you in breeze, pouring through your window like a blessing, a cleansing, a release. The sash thrown wide and no screen to separate you from the fingers of the sky. Your skin prickles with the chill, but you push the quilts away with your feet. You want to feel it all. All the fullness of the beauty of the night. All the cool of the air and sigh of the wind and rain of the poplar leaves. It is all yours, for you are the only one awake to accept it. It is alive, and so are you, and all of this is good.
You blink, and suddenly there are fireflies. The lawn, the road, the field are all overtaken by the lights of a thousand tiny creatures, searching for relation in the darkness. They tremble from the grass, they shimmer near your window, they climb free even above the tops of the tallest trees. They seek, brave, and you wonder if they ever fail to find. You wonder if people are like fireflies, sometimes. Casting out a line in the darkness, searching for someone to grab hold of the other end, praying that they do. Or casting out a line, searching for someone to grab hold, only to destroy them once they come near enough for their outlashing to strike home. The light of a firefly is both love and death. You wonder if sometimes the words of humanity are not the same.
The moon disappears at last behind a veil of thin cloud and the westward mountains. In the darkness it has left behind, the stars appear. And though the light of the moon can no longer keep you awake, you find that now you are reluctant to sleep. There is magic in the stars, a wisdom of ages passed before your world began. There is power, and maturity, and protection. There is life more mysterious than any you have ever known, and there is death more violent, more catastrophically beautiful than any you will ever see. There is forever in the stars. There is also untouchable fragility. You cannot sleep, in the face of such awful goodness and grace.
And yet the tiredness behind your eyes spreads through you, and the sighing rainfall of the poplar hums in your mind, and the fireflies sing you a symphony of peace and rest, and the wind touches your face with all the gentleness of a mother, and your eyes close. When you finally fall into sleep, it is with your head pillowed on your windowsill and your face turned to the stars.