After dusk the observatory left a tray of binoculars on the dome, each pair no larger than a plum. The astronomer on duty said the stars had been squinting for years, and it seemed only fair to lend them a closer look. She tied each strap with a scrap of ribbon so they would not slide off a constellation.
We asked on the corner by the bakery. A man with a balcony geranium said a little light paused above his railing, then dipped, as if nodding through glass. In the visitors' book someone had written that the Big Dipper now takes the west windows first, and that the lamps on Maple Street have learned to dim their bragging.
A day later the same man came out with cocoa and waited. Three small glints arrived, waved once, and went on down the block, taking turns at the view.