Taking the garbage out to the can, I looked up. The sun has just gone down. The western horizon was still bathed in daylight. The sky overhead was a darker blue. I walked out into the middle of the street. From there I could see the crescent moon.
The moon, making its backwards way along the ecliptic has just passed Spika and Mars and Saturn, and I wanted to know if they were visible, yet. They weren’t, but I looked a bit longer, because in an early evening sky, the first stars have a way of hiding from you. So I stood there in the middle of the street (having looked both ways as our parents taught us). I saw nothing, so I went back inside.
A few minutes later, I came out again — another handful of garbage for the can.
The light of the sun over the horizon was fading. The eastern sky was that deep indigo blue. (I know you know the color.) The sky overhead was darker than it had been the last time. So I wandered out again into the street. And there, just to the west of the moon was a dim, barely visible dot.
Would that be Spika? No, too close to the moon, which was just west of Spika several days ago. Not Mars, either — not red enough. It must be Saturn. Then where’s Mars? I gazed further to the west and saw nothing. Oh for heaven’s sake, where’s Mars? I looked harder, because … well you know … they hide from you. And sure enough, there was red Mars. Ok, then, where’s Spika, then? Bright Spika, after all, sits stationary in the ecliptic, masquerading as a planet, fooling the unwary. And sure enough, there was Spika.
Bang, bang, bang, bang. The moon, Saturn, Mars and Spika. One after another. Four in a row following the great arc of the ecliptic spread out overhead. You could almost see the curve drawn across the heavens.
I dropped my second handful of garbage into the can, and went back inside.