A Year of Stargazing

Orbs like planets in the darkness that some patrons insisted must be spherical lanterns, globes of dusky light, as real planets would be much too hard to see in the illumination of the circus.

Above tiny lights had come alive, the sounds of the circus dimmed, replaced by the sound of wind and chimes like the tinkling of icicles. The lights clumped together in lines and spirals, forming pictures that are the stuff of legend. Patrons could not discern whether it was the night sky or a cleverly sewn tapestry of constellations.

Stargazers intimately familiar with Carina, Aquarius, Cassiopeia and the Hydra do not recognize some of these new shapes and try to trap them in their memory, to consult their books and journals. Children depict animals and make-believe creatures in them; create stories of their own. Older folk enjoy the silence and the darkness, speak in low tones of how much more visible the stars were when they were young. Lovers lie side to side, holding each other, enjoying the privacy.

The lights blaze and twinkle, shift as though the night has sped and a spectrum of stars visible in only the winter or summer as suddenly visible only minutes apart.

Patrons point to shooting stars, make wishes they forget later in the same night. They leave stark white streaks across the sky and when the stars begin to fade and the clouds appear, they are bright lines in green and silver. When there is no more light save for those that line the entrance to the tent the patrons slowly stand and make their way out, blinking the bright spots from their vision.

Text by Lucie MacAulay