counting the trails

I'm flat on my back, out on the deck in back wearing a tank-top, slip of a patchwork skirt, no socks no shoes no over-shirt.
I can feel every separate board and nail beneath me, even the wood grain on the skin of my thighs.
The night sky is framed tight by the silhouettes of big Doug firs and Redwoods, filled with stars - so many I can't keep track of the familiar constellations up there somewhere.
I could be any me, from any time of place, just me.
I'm watching for shooting stars.