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Looking for Mercury
Mar. 29th, 2004 03:43 pmThis account is taken from an email I sent to Eric. I removed the sentimental bits first. The date is March 26th. Given the weather forecast, I probably won't see Mercury again this time around, so waiting for a second account to add to this one seems unproductive.
I went out at sunset; the western sky was stained a uniform orange and Venus was beginning to gain brightness. The fat crescent Moon was all yellow, rocking in the blue.
I went up to 38th Street and walked west, staring earnestly at the sky even though I knew it was too early. When I looked over my shoulder, Jupiter was already there. I turned south on Grand Avenue and went south. Saturn came out. At 40th Street Mars came out, and just as I had spotted it a bat described a neat spiral right in front of it. I went on, and a pair of bats chased one another from Mars to Saturn and back again. The single one joined them. They were flying to the end of the street and across it and back again, singly or together, like children forbidden to leave their own block.
There were a lot of people out, walking dogs or strollers, or jogging, or bicycling, mostly without lights. Lights came on in the houses as the stars came out overhead. In the houses were warm wood and red walls, or blue, or green, or white, people eating in large groups and people reading alone. A black cat with white feet and bib came tearing across the street,
momentarily looking like feet and bib alone. Then it lay down on the sidewalk and became whole.
I turned west again at 42nd Street, heading for the little hill I had found before. Aldebaran, Sirius, Procyon came out. I had to check when I got home, but I think I recognized them correctly. A bat swept past Aldebaran, and back again.
I came to the top of my chosen star-gazing hill, at Garfield Avenue. Orion was absent one moment and then it was there, remote and tiny. The sky was still deep blue, paler at the horizon. I looked, and in the west, way down, far below and a little to the right of Venus, was a minute spark. I put the binoculars on it, and it steadied. Framed in bare branches thick with buds, power lines, and a big blue sign saying GARFIELD AVENUE, Mercury wavered and twinkled in a sky, through the glasses, still just tinged with pink. A lot of airplanes kept flying in front of it. I hoped for more bats, but they were busy elsewhere.
When the sky was black and Mercury was almost below the tree branches, I walked home. I hoped that Eric, two hours behind me, would go out and look at it, as I had looked at it. The house lights were cozy and close, but I kept looking at the stars. I came to my house and went in, out of the wind, upstairs, and looked out of the library window. Venus was there, but Mercury had gone.
Pamela
I went out at sunset; the western sky was stained a uniform orange and Venus was beginning to gain brightness. The fat crescent Moon was all yellow, rocking in the blue.
I went up to 38th Street and walked west, staring earnestly at the sky even though I knew it was too early. When I looked over my shoulder, Jupiter was already there. I turned south on Grand Avenue and went south. Saturn came out. At 40th Street Mars came out, and just as I had spotted it a bat described a neat spiral right in front of it. I went on, and a pair of bats chased one another from Mars to Saturn and back again. The single one joined them. They were flying to the end of the street and across it and back again, singly or together, like children forbidden to leave their own block.
There were a lot of people out, walking dogs or strollers, or jogging, or bicycling, mostly without lights. Lights came on in the houses as the stars came out overhead. In the houses were warm wood and red walls, or blue, or green, or white, people eating in large groups and people reading alone. A black cat with white feet and bib came tearing across the street,
momentarily looking like feet and bib alone. Then it lay down on the sidewalk and became whole.
I turned west again at 42nd Street, heading for the little hill I had found before. Aldebaran, Sirius, Procyon came out. I had to check when I got home, but I think I recognized them correctly. A bat swept past Aldebaran, and back again.
I came to the top of my chosen star-gazing hill, at Garfield Avenue. Orion was absent one moment and then it was there, remote and tiny. The sky was still deep blue, paler at the horizon. I looked, and in the west, way down, far below and a little to the right of Venus, was a minute spark. I put the binoculars on it, and it steadied. Framed in bare branches thick with buds, power lines, and a big blue sign saying GARFIELD AVENUE, Mercury wavered and twinkled in a sky, through the glasses, still just tinged with pink. A lot of airplanes kept flying in front of it. I hoped for more bats, but they were busy elsewhere.
When the sky was black and Mercury was almost below the tree branches, I walked home. I hoped that Eric, two hours behind me, would go out and look at it, as I had looked at it. The house lights were cozy and close, but I kept looking at the stars. I came to my house and went in, out of the wind, upstairs, and looked out of the library window. Venus was there, but Mercury had gone.
Pamela
