Shooting Star

Our tent in the backyard rippled lazily in the sedative wind. Our sleeping bags weren't in the tent yet, though. Waiting through dusk for the stars to come out. Flat on our backs. The moon at our feet. The stars that weren't stars always the first to appear. I'd explained to my son a few times over the years how stars and planets are different. I did so again. He was indifferent again.

He sat up to take a drink of his water and I sat up to take a drink of my beer.

A shooting star zipped by overhead.