November evening, ’23: Observing the heavens with a child
By William Collen
Now that the sun is below the horizon
we’ll wait for an hour and then walk outside
and I’ll teach you the names of the stars as they come.
First is Jupiter, royal and golden,
a wandering star, and rising now easterly.
Then there is Vega, the gem in the lyre,
there in the west, a pale spark of flame.
Look next to Vega—there, slightly higher—
and trace with care the wings of the swan.
The swan flies southward, but past it the bright one
is orange Altair, the eye of the eagle.
Look to the north. Tangled up in the treetops
the dipper wheels slowly, stately and close.
Fixèd Polaris, the axis and center,
lies high to the dipper, and points the way north.
Across from the dipper and high in the east
is the letter: an M, or a W, they say.
It signifies, I think, some primitive queen.
There above Jupiter is a dim region
but lurking within is the great spiral nebula,
too faint to see this close to the city.
If we were far into the depths of the country,
we could see stars in majestic profusion.
Once, on a camping trip three or four years ago,
I couldn’t sleep so I looked at the stars.
There were more stars than sky; dense beyond reckoning.
Low in the east was a thin crescent moon.
I went back to bed but the sleep wouldn’t come
so I ventured outside again. There in the heavens
the stars had rotated; the moon was now higher
and as I beheld it a fear came upon me.
Listen now, closely. It wasn’t a fear
of a coming disaster, or craven unease
at the absence of light. It was mingled with joy.
I was afraid, but the fear was a holy one;
I felt the presence of my Lord and Maker.
“The heavens declare the glory of God;”
that night at the campsite I knew it was true.
I knew my own smallness. I knew that He knew me.
I knew that He loved me, there under the stars.
Come now, it’s cold out. Let’s get back inside.
It’s late, too. Tomorrow, I think it might rain.
If it does, we can walk in the forest and listen
to the sound of the rain soaking into the ground.