This is how it happens: we drive up Mill Mountain, the Xterra snaking a black ribbon of road through the green.
At top, there’s the Star.
We have two special friends from DC with us, visiting for the weekend, and we know that no trip to our little city is complete without at least ten minutes on the Star Overlook, leaning on the rails, taking in the view and snapping photographs.
So that’s what we do.
We stand there gaping at the view: range after range of blue hills disappearing into the distance, smudged and softened into cloud.
We gape at the Roanoke Star, too: that big neon contraption that glows white in the night, seen for miles and miles.
After we’re done happily gaping, I take all the usual photos that one takes at the Star. Like this:
And then we head back down the trail to where our cars our parked.
But just before we get there, I stop right in the middle of the sidewalk. My eye is caught by a single clean circle grooved in the pavement — inexplicably round as a dinner plate, perfect and precise. The light catches in the grass nearby, and I think: this.
My husband makes a joke about the way I’m dawdling behind, taking photos of leaves on the sidewalk. And I’m okay with that — being the girl who lags behind, finding beauty in damp asphalt, dry leaves and bits of green.
Because as much as I love my little city and its great-big beautiful star (and I do) … I love this shot the most:
Happy seeing, friends. Hope your eyes are open to all sorts of ordinary wonder today. ❤