The magic of a summer night.

When you're lying flat on your back in the itchy scratchy but somehow still soft and comfortable grass, and the night sky stretches up above you so far and covers you like a dome, like a giant cake dome, and even though you know those stars so bright are millions and millions of lightyears away, you just feel like you could reach right up and pull one straight out of the sky. And you don't hear anything but the frogs and the cicadas and the katydids and crickets and the occasional car on the distant highway, or maybe a plane soaring far overhead. And you just feel so tiny, but not an insignificant kind of tiny. The kind of tiny that makes you feel like all the stress and strife of everyday life really doesn't make that much difference. The kind of tiny that makes you feel connected to the very earth, and to everything else on it. The bugs, the trees, the grass, the water. And you close your eyes, and for once, you feel like maybe, just maybe, everything really will work out okay.