The Northern Lights presented itself the way cream falls into a freshly made expresso. Stood beneath with liquid bones dizzied by its secrecy. This was the first time I had seem this stripe of light through the sky, moulded to the stars and surrounding mountains. It satisfies your inner child who was always patronised by societies version of magic, the man stood pulling a rabbit from his hat. Here I was drunk on light, watching a performance that laughed at how shrunken our brains have become. This is magic, fuck you, here I am. It was fleeting, but left an imprint of vivid memory, the way dreams do in the first 10 minutes of waking. City nights deprive us from looking upwards. Here, you live on an axes of bones. The fluid that allows us to move is as alive as the nights sky. I am never to be satisfied by mans magic, when nature says it all in a fleeting moment. It does not need an encore to feed its meaning. It just is.