Oh, the Sights You'll See!

In this episode, Oh, the Sights You'll See! When the Clouds Flee!

Oh, the May Gray and June Gloom, what a plight!

For sky-watchers longing for stars in the night!

Your telescopes sighing, all dusty and sad,

"Oh, where are the heavens? This weather is bad!"

The California coast, with its marine layer so thick,

Plays hide-and-seek games, a mischievous trick!

But good news is coming, as summer draws near,

A cosmic grand show, to banish all fear!

That misty old blanket, it loves to entwine,

Our sunny, bright days, with a cool, foggy shine.

But nature, you see, has a plan, it is true,

Building anticipation for me and for you!

For lo and behold, as the days stretch so long,

And summer air warms, where the clouds don't belong,

The core of the Galaxy, vibrant and grand,

Will soon grace our skies, all across the whole land!

With billions of stars, and with nebulae bright,

And dark dusty lanes, a magnificent sight!

From Carlsbad and Vista, when twilight fades,

The Milky Way's arc will be beautifully made!

Like diamonds uncountable, sparkling and bold,

On velvet so deep, a story untold.

So don't just go twinkle, oh no, they will blaze!

Inviting your eyes, through the cosmic-wide maze!

Now, when is the best time for this wondrous display?

Not early, not midday, but after midnight, hooray!

When the moon has gone down, and the darkness is deep,

The galactic core rises from its slumbering sleep!

Less atmospheric fuss, and a view crystal clear,

As planets all spin, for the vision to peer.

And as July and August, then quickly will fly,

It will rise up much earlier, to greet every eye!

It's more than just stars, it's a feeling so deep,

A connection to wonders, while slumberers sleep.

A glimpse of the fabric, so ancient and vast,

A beauty profound, that forever will last!

So, dust off those lenses, charge batteries bright,

Prepare your own eyes, for an unforgettable night!

The universe calls, with a whisper and hum,

The majestic Milky Way is surely to come!

Are you ready to see, with your heart and your soul?

The core of our galaxy, making you whole?

Share your grand plans in the comments below.

Of what you will see, in the celestial glow!

Happy stargazing, friends, with a twinkle and cheer!

I'm Patrick Ball, and I'll see you right here,

In the cosmos, so curious, and questioning bright,

Until next time, good night, and good cosmic delight!

Comments

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . . It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it. Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism. Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers. A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town. F...

On The Fly

Search This Blog