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Shortly after sunset, two days past its darkest phase, a Cheshire moon smiles in the southwest. As if smirking at some cosmic joke, the face in the sky turns away periodically, routinely, ending the game of hide-and-seek. First, an outline shows faintly above the horizon, against the deepening blue. Then, all is revealed: the circular countenance appears, whole and beaming. Mars (or is it Venus?), amiable fellow-traveler, provides perspective, a steady reference for the monthly circuit.

This lunar sky ranger is not fooling me. With only a slivered arc ablaze, for all who are alert, the entire face can materialize out of gathering darkness, just after sundown, misty glow spread thin along the canted surface. To see more than the obvious slice, you must hold the gaze, stay with the sight in oncoming dusk. As is true with more than sky-watching, longer looks — some slightly off-center — bring clearer views. Soon, though, reflected sunlight disappears. This evanescent joker dissolves into the night.

Summertime, too many years ago, the gentle slope of the yard west of the house made a perfect back-rest for cloud-watching, my discovery of animated life in the sky. Everything adrift. Puffy, white cumulus during the day. Small, white dots in random patterns at night. Tales as simple or complex as I wanted, like Aesop or Aladdin's Arabian Nights, mine to create out of time, space, and thin air.

My favorite spot was just under the shade of tall cottonwoods. Framed by overhanging branches on the west and the corner of the house opposite, I was a singular audience for the moving sky-pictures wandering to and fro, unique combinations of mind and matter. Was that an elephant up there? No, maybe a bighorn sheep, ready to turn and dash up a mountain looming behind. Fantastical stories swirled in my head, as clouds folded and boiled and slid across the blue backdrop during the outdoor matinee.

October turns cold and Orion appears, stalking prey along the southern sky. Out each night, he hunts in this hemisphere during the coldest of seasons. Comforted by his annual appearance overhead, I rely on his dependable presence. Watchful eyes keep me in view as I drive home late at night against a fierce northwest wind. We exchange warm greetings as he rises, just when I'm ready for bed, during this time of year when fingers of winter paint frost on the glass between us.

Where do they come from, these stories in the sky? I used to wonder, but lately, I've discovered they're gifts. Encouraged by exposure to the variety of people and places and things, these tales are the cumulative happenstance of all that creates my existence here. Traveling by book and conversation and wonder, sky-stories arise from exploring the literal worlds I touch, and make-believe worlds I see behind my eyes, the solid and shadowy worlds I welcome all my life.

Still a fascinating place to look, the sky isn't my only source of adventure anymore. Now, such excursions happen anywhere, any time. Add a pinch of delight, and looking becomes seeing. Stories are born!

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