Fireball night — the Southern Taurids are peaking and these are the slow, bright kind that split the whole sky when they land. I gave the blanket most of my clothes an hour ago and I'm not taking them back. There's room for exactly one more out here.
The nebula in Orion's sword is burning steady in my eyepiece, a whole nursery of new stars glowing through the last of the dark. My robe gave up on me hours ago and honestly, so did I. Come take the next look — I'll trade you the eyepiece for warming your hands.
A crescent barely a day from new, squeezed in tight between Mars and Jupiter before the sky starts lightening — all three in one binocular view and I'm not moving until they do. The empty chair beside me has your name on it.
Last quarter Moon won't clear the trees until long after dark, and then she slides right past the Beehive Cluster — a whole swarm of stars sharing one binocular view. Lenses polished, batteries charging, and this flannel keeps losing arguments. Tell me you'd set an alarm for a moonrise like that.
The Moon doesn't even rise until close to eleven tonight, which means the sky goes properly dark right when the doorbell starts ringing — Saturn's up all evening and I'm not missing it. Candy bowl's full, batteries are charging, and I may have picked my layers for warmth rather than coverage. Trick or treat — which do you want first?
Mars, Jupiter, and Regulus just lined themselves up in one neat row above the trees, evenly spaced like they planned it, and I'm not going back inside until they scatter. There's room under my coat if you hurry.
The Moon, Aldebaran, and Betelgeuse just drew a triangle across half my sky — Taurus holding one corner, Orion waking up on the other. I came out for five minutes and the blanket never stood a chance. Find the triangle from wherever you are and think of me.
Aldebaran is parked right beside the Moon tonight, and through the binoculars that orange eye against all that silver does something to me every time. My sweater lost its fight with the cold an hour ago and I let it. Come take a look before they climb too high?
The Moon is swallowing the Seven Sisters tonight — one bright star after another slipping behind her edge and popping back out the far side, and I refuse to miss a single one. The flannel's already given up on staying closed, so come share the binoculars before the last of them reappears?
Neptune gets a visitor tonight — the nearly full Moon slides right past it and Saturn turns the whole thing into a trio. I'm not coming inside until I've watched it happen, so come take the empty chair.