By John M. McMahon A summer evening. The blazing afternoon has lost its hold on a wilted landscape, and the faintest wisp of coolness lures you outside to porch or backyard. As the welcome dusk just beyond the tree line overtakes the fading day and the blue overhead deepens, one by one stars, old friends, begin to glimmer in the darkening sky. For a brief moment you stand suspended on the borderland between very different worlds, day and night, earth and the heavens, and are swept along into the easy calmness of the night. Suddenly the piercing glare of first one, then another floodlight assaults your eyes and suffuses the surroundings with their harsh glow.
Deep shadows appear where once hovered the inviting outlines of trees.
You squint to see. The world has been transformed into a prison yard of illumination. Overhead a pale orange wash from neighborhood security lamps, garish advertising signs, and parking lot lighting near and far suffocates the heavens. The stars have disappeared, blotted from sight, and you retreat indoors to escape the visual static. Even there, though, the probing illumination casts shadows on the walls.