A ritual walk on the sand, the brittle night and the wide blue sky of Winter boundless above us. With frozen lips I named the couple stars I've managed to learn and wondered why I didn't choose to learn the warmer summer sky.
I'm tempted to start my naming with the Big Dipper and its arrow to Polaris; the Big Dipper being the only constellation I'd learned as a child and which I've since learned (thanks to Steve) is, instead, an asterism.
I turn my back to the chill wind and its view of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor to start instead with conspicuous Orion, whose belt (another asterism and don't I sound smart?) points the way to Sirius and Canis Major and Canis Minor... in that general area, too, someone's imagined a rabbit, but I don't see it.
A couple spins (I did a lot of spinning to reorient myself in the sky and avoid the wind) and high in the sky I find the almost familiar "W" of Cassiopeia, whose name I can't pronounce correctly, especially not with such numb lips. From the corner of my eye, a new one, the Pleiades, overhead.
That's five at least, isn't it? Have I learned my quota, can I get back in my car and out of this relentless cold, please?
The dark and the hush deepen, all a part of the beauty that touches the quick of understanding. We came for the night, as well as the stars, and it was there all around us. When at last my stiff fingers had thawed and I was on my way home again, the magic was still there. It's more than the stars; it's the cold and the wind, and the old, old stories across the sky.
34 in my 39 by 40.
a return Visit
2 years ago