One still, chilly night in Burbank, California, I witnessed something that clung to my thoughts long after. At just before dawn, two distinct clusters of lights appeared, gliding west to east, moving steadily at about 30 miles per hour. The first group floated roughly a thousand feet above the street I was on—exactly overhead. Then, trailing behind by about a quarter mile, the second cluster slid by at a mere hundred feet altitude.
Both sets of lights were so tightly grouped that the shapes of whatever they were attached to remained stubbornly hidden in the darkened sky—no contours, no edges, just two silent, glowing formations. I stepped out of my car, straining my ears, but there was only the whisper of the night air. No hum, no engine, nothing to suggest these lights belonged to any earthly craft.
The mystery of these lights, their silent passage, and the uncanny coordination between them etched a haunting memory in my mind. What moved so silently through the night, guided by who—or what? That night in Burbank, the sky refused to yield its secret, leaving just eerie lights, hauntingly bright against the darkness.