Sometimes, if you eavesdrop on the hunters in my family, you'll discover the hidden reason for their trips: awe in the face of beauty.

If you've ever experienced wonder and the mystery of the northland, don't miss the last few days of the Tom Uttech exhibition at the Tory Folliard Gallery, 233 N. Milwaukee Street.

Nature art isn't usually my cup of tea. But this work belongs in a different category entirely. 

The paintings don't reproduce well. Go and experience them. The show ends Saturday, December 29.

Tonight is full of the sounds of summer critter symphony: cicada, cricket, and tree frog. The closer you are to places thick with trees, the louder the concert, and the more instruments playing it. It almost masks the constant whine of traffic on the freeway.

I was listening so intently while walking Idgy tonight that I almost didn’t see the couple lying side-by-side on the hood of the pick-up truck.

“Fireworks tonight?” I asked.

“No, just stars,” they said.

I looked up, something I’d forgotten to do.

There’s too much light from the city, from our houses and streets, to see much. You have to go to Wildcat Mountain to really see the night sky.

But even on 116th Street, above the last of the fireflies, you can see the moon starting to bulge, Jupiter with his steady shine, and Antares, a little red and twinkling.

Antares means “Against Ares,” the war god. That seems appropriate in the peaceful cool of the evening. Seems like the proper work of people at the end of the day is stargazing. Making love, not war.

Over the cicada tympany, an old song runs through my head. I sing it, even though there’s no one around to hear.

Are the stars out tonight?
I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright
I only have eyes for you, dear.

If you have eyes to see, look up. There's plenty to love all about you.