They were startling the first morning.
Initially I thought that the flashes of white were glints from a mirror, but they were too fleeting and too many. As I glanced out the window, I saw the seagulls traversing north to south in small groups across the early morning sky. Although dark clouds still blanketed the earth below in shadow, the birds were high enough in the atmosphere to catch the rays of sun that were breaking through far above the horizon. Their white wings captured the zenith of morning sun, their rhythm refracting the wavelengths, scattering the polarity of light into droplets of oblique brilliance.
I have seen them every morning since, like clockwork, in roughly the same numbers, reminding me to look up from my earth-bound or inwardly-focused gaze periodically.
Last night the meteors passed by, on their annual migration to wherever it is that meteors spend the autumn. Perseids are here we called to each other as we pulled on sweaters and pulled the door shut behind us. Too cool near midnight to lie back on a blanket, with not enough forethought spent to find a sheltered spot not visible to the neighbours and the odd passing car. But standing so that the branches of the mountain ash blocked the glare of the streetlight, we craned our necks to revel in the oddly jerking motion of those shooting stars, tails trailing ostentatiously behind them far longer than decorum dictated. Showoffs, those celestial bodies, second only to that master showman, the solar eclipse, in knowing how to strut their stuff.
How is it that they don't bump into those ones and zeroes which rocket their way through the ether, teleporting the dreams, wishes, and lolcats that race amongst us?