I look out the window just past dusk, and I see a point of light close to the horizon, just above the hill, poised to sink down into it the way the sun falls into the ocean.

I head outside and don’t even bother to put on my shoes, stepping gingerly over the maple helicopters so they don’t stick to my socks.

I want to see the stars, to see their splendor, and so I stand out there in the cold, and I look up. To the west, the sky is completely clear. To the east, the sky is brown, hazed over, and all I can see is one glittering star caught in the cedar branches, like sunlight on water.

The light near the hill has already sunk, already moved just slightly toward the blue. It’s Venus; that’s what it is. I’ve seen it before, low in the sky, brighter than anything else.

I let my eyes adjust until I can pick out Taurus, where Jupiter hangs like a broad-faced god. Even though it’s farther away, Jupiter feels warmer and somehow closer than Venus. It sits between the U-shaped horns of Taurus, above Aldebaran, a small red star that I always mistake for Mars.

But Mars is out, too, the real one. It’s wandering through Gemini, just east of the twin stars, Castor and Pollux. There’s something strange about Mars. Even though it’s red, its light feels cold, like a single ember from some old fire, a spark scattered far-off on the soil, burning the last of its thin, ghostly light until it fades into nothing.

I look up even higher, just then, and at that moment a shooting star streaks by, fleeting, like the arc of a skipping stone. I never see shooting stars in the city—none that bright, at least. It’s the only one, but I stay out anyway, watching the sky as it tilts, the great lobe of the stars, until Venus disappears into the earth.