My daughter Tesha is seven and already I must run to keep up with her. Tesha and I slept out on the secluded ridge near our house last night. Her energy and drive to do things outdoors amazes and thrills me. It is better than winning the lottery. So despite my inclination to enjoy the stars from my dreams, I found myself following Tesha up the trail in the dark, holding a flashlight more for my benefit than hers. Everything is different in the dark. Roots loom large and trees immense. Fascinating twists in the terrain seem menacing. We missed the cutoff to the ridgetop trail at the top of the treehouse meadow, and we crashed our way through the trees until we found the trail again. Tesha, always in the lead, plowed ahead. "I know this place, Dad. We're pretty close." She said this about six times, talking me up the hill.

By 10:15 we had found our spot, rolled out our bags, fed our dog Sherman, and snuggled up to look at the sky. It was star paradise. It was paradise on earth. For some reason there are almost no mosquitos this year, which makes summer nights a storybook of pleasure with no pain. We stared up at Lyra. And Corona Borealis and Bootes. There was Serpens and Ophiucus, the good doctor who it seems is about to get bonked on the head by Hercules. Then Aquila and Cygnus, the eagle and swan, both soaring high and among my favorites, when suddenly from west to east flew the longest and slowest meteorite I have ever seen. But we didn't say much. The shooting star seemed to come with the scene.

Tesha woke me sometime in the middle of the night. That's right, she woke me up. Our roles again were reversed, and I was the follower. She asked about the stars and we found Pegasus now in front of us where Ophiucus earlier was getting beaned by Hercules. Tesha asked about a tiny square cluster and pointed toward the Pleides. I couldn't help her, couldn't even see her square. Later today she still remembered her cluster, its size and shape, and I still haven't figured it out. I now wonder what she saw. But at the time I was tired, and it was easier to roll over and go back to sleep.

I dreamed I was walking with a young woman in a flowery meadow high on Icicle Ridge. The sun shone with the type of glow that you see only in dreams and movies. The young woman was Tesha, older and assertive and at peace with herself. We talked, about what I don't know, but what I do remember is that she was separate from me. I was thrilled. Here was my little girl grown up! Independent and concerned and laughing. But my gut also twisted. She was grown up. She was going away. My job was done. My opportunities to watch her grow from child to adult were gone. She was moving faster than me. I awoke with a knot in my stomach.

We had slept until 8 a.m., nearly three hours after sunrise. Despite my dream Tesha was still at my side, burrowed in her bag and breathing silently. I got up, still feeling emotionally dizzy, and stretched and petted Sherman. When I turned back around Tesha was up too. She talked about stars as she put on her shoes. Then, looking up at a steep hill along the ridgetop, she said, "Let's run up there and back down eight times, to get warm." She took off up the hill, ahead of me the whole way. I savored a tremendous breath of morning air, then hurried to catch up.