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Hunting for dark nights and wishing on stars
A bike ride into the desert and an author in search of darkness.
My old friend Irvin Fox-Fernandez, wearing a warm hat and layers of coats, comes back from a walk up the wash, clutching woody flood debris in both hands, a husk of a Joshua tree appendage and tangled roots that died months ago. Our fire goes out, smothered in gravel and dust, burned down to a cup and a half of fine ash at the bottom of the wash. Irvin is wearing flip-flops, the rest of his body bundled warmly in the crispness. The meter takes bites out of the visible spectrum, and I won’t pretend to understand the arc seconds involved in its readings, but a number offers a baseline.
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