A crescent Moon won't bother rising until after midnight, so the whole evening belongs to the faint stuff — Saturn first, then whatever else the dark gives up. The roof will freeze me later, so the hot soak comes first. Want to be here when I get out?
Jupiter doesn't clear the rooftops until late tonight, and my observing list for it is already written — I do my best planning undisturbed. Keep me company until it's dark enough?
Half a Moon hangs over tonight, and that lit half is where all the good stuff lives — every crater along the line between light and dark throwing a shadow deep enough to fall into. It won't climb high until near midnight, so I'm banking sleep while I can. Come keep the other side of the bed warm until moonrise?
The Moon doesn't rise for hours, so the sky is mine until then — Saturn's up and Neptune's hiding just beside it, and I've got a narrow window of real darkness to catch them both. I'm hauling the scope up to the roof before the Moon steals it back. Race me up there?
Mars, Jupiter and Regulus are sitting in one perfect line in the southeast right now, and I was the only one on my street awake to catch it. The telescope's packed away — and so is everything else I had on. Tell me it was worth losing sleep over?
The Moon hits its closest point to Earth tonight — the biggest, brightest face it shows all month, so I killed every lamp and let it do the lighting instead. Everything faint out there is drowned anyway. Come stand where the shadows are sharp?
Kettle's on and the Moon is already parked right beside Aldebaran, the bull's orange eye — with binoculars, Uranus hides just next door. I'm topping off the thermos before I haul everything up to the roof. Come keep the eyepiece warm?
Tonight the Moon swallows the Pleiades one star at a time, and I refuse to miss a single disappearance. The gear's all over the floor and I'm still deciding what stays on for the cold. Which layer do you vote comes off first?
Peak night at last — the Moon finally gave up the sky and the Orionids are falling through the dark window while everyone else sleeps. I shed the layers an hour ago; the blanket's doing all the work now. Come count streaks with me before the horizon turns blue?
Almach looks like one star to bare eyes, but a telescope splits it into gold and blue — two lights hiding as one all night. The Moon is bright tonight and it doesn't matter, that pair cuts through anything. Come find what I'm hiding before I get dressed?