I sat by a small fire, in a clearing within the pine-forested hills of northern Arkansas, waiting for something to happen while I scratched my name idly in the dirt with a stick—Ruenn Maclang. About me, night’s face was dark and cold and lovely. Above me, the stars seemed as clear and brittle as icicle teeth. Looking up at those stars, I could see the familiar constellations of my youth, the big and little dipper, and to the north the pole star.
Seeing those brilliant and familiar points reminded me of my father, Kendall, who had taught me the constellations, and of late evenings in the California vineyards of my mother’s family where the first star was a joy. But that was youth. There are other heavens that are important to me now. They hold no stars. I waited in this clearing tonight, n
