Field of Stars

When I was younger, I believed dandelions were stars. At night the grass was black: black as the sky, black as the trees. The dandelions were always white, whether the moon was out or not. They didn't glow, but they dotted the blackness with their white clocks the way stars do the sky, and stood in clumps like constellations. I looked up and down, back and forth between earth and sky. They were the same in my eyes. And when I ran through a field of dandelions, scattering wishes and seeds, I was running in the stars.

Text by Lucie MacAulay