Fireflies hover above the open canopy of our tent‒‒ Ah…they are only stars, not insects. They have no light for me. Newcastle Island is dark, and smells of seawater and camp fires. All that touches me is by my side—warm, breathing, dreaming. The pinpoint holes in the heavens cannot light the colours below, and my electric torch is more brilliant than any star, because it is ours. The learned astronomers tell us galaxies are collapsing and exploding but I feel more heat from your breath than those trillion stellar blazes Whitman told us he look’d up in perfect silence at the stars, and I have been in awe before, but soon we will visit those endless continents and dry our feet on their shores; for now, the barely glowing mortals beneath the canvas are fragile as moonlight on the waves, and will shine longer than the faint sparks above.