One quiet evening in Collingwood, Ontario, my wife and I found ourselves staring into the twilight at what seemed initially like two orange stars. But these were no ordinary stars; they were moving, almost methodically. The pair glided across the sky to the southeast, aligned one behind the other, reminiscent of an aircraft with a lead light and a trailing beacon.
As we fixed our gaze, the trailing light shifted subtly eastward, as if the unseen body it clung to was pivoting its nose towards us while pulling its tail away. This motion was eerie, intensified by the dimming of the back light as it slipped behind the mysterious craft, eventually disappearing completely. The lead light followed suit, its brightness fading until it too vanished into the night sky.
The entire spectacle lasted no more than thirty seconds, yet it left us suspended in a state of wonder and unease. The lights didn’t behave like any conventional aircraft; their movement and sudden disappearance were unlike anything familiar, sparking a deep curiosity and a quiet thrill.
My wife, who works in an answering service, and I, a factory worker, have no special interest or background in aviation or astronomy, which makes this encounter all the more compelling. What flew over Collingwood that night was truly a mystery—an enigmatic dance of light against the dark canvas, inviting questions without answers.