What made it
onto the page.

I stopped trying to draw the whole Moon and chose one small stretch beside the line between light and darkness. The shadows made the crater edges much easier to separate. On the page I used tiny arcs rather than complete circles; the missing parts said more about what I could actually see. By the time I went inside, my tea had developed a skin and the drawing had three stubborn fingerprints.

One clear evening I left the binoculars in their case and drew the roof line instead. I marked the chimney, the pear tree, and the gap between them, then added the brightest points I could hold in my memory. It was a better record of my observing spot than another ambitious star sketch. Now I start each session by finding that same gap and noticing how different it feels from the previous visit.

I carried everything outside, adjusted the chair twice, and watched a clean opening close before I had uncapped the pencil. The entire entry reads: “Wet paving. One star, briefly. Heard the last bus.” I used to feel cheated by nights like that. Now the short entries are useful company for the good ones; they remind me what it takes to be in the right place when the clouds do move on.