I wish you all could have seen the sky this morning.
On the mornings of November 4th and 5th, Venus and Jupiter were one degree apart from one another; that is, if you were to hold your pinky out at arm's length, you could cover them both. I didn't know about this until yesterday, when my dad told me. I was exhausted last night, and fell asleep at about 11:30, so I had a full six hours' rest already when I awoke at 5:30 to go look at the morning sky.
I don't know that I'll be able to adequately describe what I saw.
As soon as I shuffled out into the sharp pre-dawn, and was far enough away from the trees surrounding Stanback to get a good look at the sky, my attention was pulled to the eastern treeline by two of the brightest, crystalline flecks of light that I have ever witnessed. Sparkling in Virgo, Jupiter was balanced less than a centimeter to the right of Venus, which--distorted by atmosphere and my sleep-glazed eyes--threw off little rays of glittering whiteness, alive with sunlight dancing on its poison sky.
Reflexively, then, I glanced overhead, and felt a thrill as I saw, hugely rendered, Orion, Gemini, and Auriga, almost too bright in a sky cleansed by days of rain and fog. I stood in awe; but as though Nature felt it wasn't enough to vaunt only these aspects of its magnificence--and for me alone, with the rest of the immediate world asleep or unaware--a meteor skirted the Twins on a track to the southeastern horizon: a fleck of diamond refuse, discarded by some cosmic jeweler to shape a brighter gem.
I conveniently forgot how to breathe.
When I could move again, I plodded across the street, and centered myself on the lawn to balance the chapel's delicate crucifix between the lovers in the east. The ambient light was obscuring my view, though, so I resumed my trek to take a position behind the church, just in time to see the first misted, tired rays of grey-orange dawn melt into the darkness behind the preserve. Jupiter and Venus winked at me from behind the dark shapes of naked trees, enticing me to wait for sunrise-- but that was too far away for my tired mind, and I had to decline the invitation: bed was calling me back, and the first commuters were hum-roaring their way down Innes, and the night was gone, and the spell was broken.
They won't be as close together from now on. Tomorrow, though, if it's another clear sky, I'm going to look again. I would encourage you all to do yourselves a favor and try to get out of bed between 5:30 and 6am (if I can do it, you can do it)-- look to the east, just above where the sun will rise. You'll see them; you'd sooner overlook a full moon than miss the planets. It's worth it. I promise.
On the mornings of November 4th and 5th, Venus and Jupiter were one degree apart from one another; that is, if you were to hold your pinky out at arm's length, you could cover them both. I didn't know about this until yesterday, when my dad told me. I was exhausted last night, and fell asleep at about 11:30, so I had a full six hours' rest already when I awoke at 5:30 to go look at the morning sky.
I don't know that I'll be able to adequately describe what I saw.
As soon as I shuffled out into the sharp pre-dawn, and was far enough away from the trees surrounding Stanback to get a good look at the sky, my attention was pulled to the eastern treeline by two of the brightest, crystalline flecks of light that I have ever witnessed. Sparkling in Virgo, Jupiter was balanced less than a centimeter to the right of Venus, which--distorted by atmosphere and my sleep-glazed eyes--threw off little rays of glittering whiteness, alive with sunlight dancing on its poison sky.
Reflexively, then, I glanced overhead, and felt a thrill as I saw, hugely rendered, Orion, Gemini, and Auriga, almost too bright in a sky cleansed by days of rain and fog. I stood in awe; but as though Nature felt it wasn't enough to vaunt only these aspects of its magnificence--and for me alone, with the rest of the immediate world asleep or unaware--a meteor skirted the Twins on a track to the southeastern horizon: a fleck of diamond refuse, discarded by some cosmic jeweler to shape a brighter gem.
I conveniently forgot how to breathe.
When I could move again, I plodded across the street, and centered myself on the lawn to balance the chapel's delicate crucifix between the lovers in the east. The ambient light was obscuring my view, though, so I resumed my trek to take a position behind the church, just in time to see the first misted, tired rays of grey-orange dawn melt into the darkness behind the preserve. Jupiter and Venus winked at me from behind the dark shapes of naked trees, enticing me to wait for sunrise-- but that was too far away for my tired mind, and I had to decline the invitation: bed was calling me back, and the first commuters were hum-roaring their way down Innes, and the night was gone, and the spell was broken.
They won't be as close together from now on. Tomorrow, though, if it's another clear sky, I'm going to look again. I would encourage you all to do yourselves a favor and try to get out of bed between 5:30 and 6am (if I can do it, you can do it)-- look to the east, just above where the sun will rise. You'll see them; you'd sooner overlook a full moon than miss the planets. It's worth it. I promise.