The dark sky and the forest darker than
sky. The asphalt road lies in the
valley between densely leafed branches. No street lamps and
no lighted
windows of the houses.
"Here is a good enough spot, though some trees are slightly
obstructing the
view."
"No problem. Which direction of the sky are we facing now?"
"We can check it by the polestar. Look, that is the polestar
and that is
Cassiopeia."
"And?"
"That's all (wry grin). I'm surprised to find only few
names of the
constellations in my mind."
"I wonder why Cassiopeia is full
of twists and turns."
"Because she sits down on the chair, I suppose. I've seen
it on the
planisphere."
"What is she doing on the chair?"
"She has something in her hand, perhaps a spool or the like.
I might be
wrong. Apropos of those who spins threads or weaves, all I can
recall is
Penelope."
"The wife of Odysseus, isn't she?"
"Yes. Everyday she weaves at her loom, waiting for Odysseus
to return home.
But when the night comes, she unravels her work. She must marry
a new
husband if her cloth is completed."
"Has she got married?"
"Fortunately, no. Odysseus has returned on ahead, after
20 years of
absence. What a long absence!"
"What a long journey he's made!"
"I always look up into the night
sky during the trip, but I've never fallen
into a sleep while gazing the stars. I want to try it once."
"I want to see the Southern Cross. We can't see it unless
we go to
Australia, can we?"
"In Okinawa, we can see a part of it and perhaps the dummy
Southern Cross,
too."
"I have no business with the dummy! I want to see the whole
of real
Southern Cross, and if possible, the Milky Way."
"You can see the Milky Way everywhere."
"Holy moly! Why don't I remember seeing it?"
"Don't you see it really?"
"I've seen it at grandma's house when I was a child, but
it is the last..."
"Well, then, let's see the Milky Way in our next trip.
If we look for it,
we can certainly find it."
The car engine roars in the distance. The comet-like light approaches
and
suddenly expands, then just before the explosion, it vanishes.
The
gasoline smells faintly in the dark.
p.s.:
There are the moments not enough to capture in the photograph,
not enough
to write in the diary, but found only in the trips. This is
the sketch of
such a interval of the trip.
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