The Milky Way rises like a gathering mist

The Milky Way rises like a gathering mist

Photo by Luca Baggio on Unsplash

Originally published 22 July 1985

For the poets of ancient Chi­na, the Milky Way was the Celes­tial Riv­er, “a riv­er of stars turn­ing in the jade vault.” Or alter­na­tive­ly, it was “the Great Path with­out a gate” that passed between heav­en and Earth.

On sum­mer evenings in mid-north­ern lat­i­tudes, the hori­zon lies par­al­lel to the flat spi­ral of the Milky Way Galaxy. As the Earth turns toward night, the Milky Way ris­es on the east­ern sky­line like a gath­er­ing mist. It is the fullest reach of the Celes­tial Riv­er that now ris­es to enchant us, flow­ing from Cygnus in the north to Scor­pio in the south, or, as the Chi­nese would have expressed it, from the Heav­en­ly City of Tien Tsin to the Azure Dragon.

A sto­ry of old Chi­na tells of two lovers, the weav­ing girl and the herd boy, who were sep­a­rat­ed by the Great Riv­er. Only on one night of the year, the sev­enth night of the sev­enth moon, did a bridge of birds span the riv­er and allow the lovers to meet. The weav­ing girl is the star Vega and the herd boy is Altair. On that night, those two stars rise with the Milky Way, and with them return the two great birds of sum­mer, Cygnus and Aquila, the swan and the eagle, skim­ming low on the east­ern hori­zon, span­ning the broad white stream with out­stretched wings.

No part of the night sky can bring more gen­er­ous gifts to the casu­al observ­er. Here are two bright sash­es of radi­ant light draped from pole to pole, gashed by the Dark Rift. Here are the con­stel­la­tions of Sagit­tar­ius and Scu­tum, pow­dered with stars. And for the view with binoc­u­lars or small tele­scope, there are a host of objects of del­i­cate beauty.

Sampling of beauty

Here is the blue and gold bina­ry star Albireo, a sin­gle point of white light to the naked eye, but two stu­pen­dous suns on the small instru­ment, one star 760 times more lumi­nous than our sun, the oth­er 120 times brighter, sap­phire and topaz. Fifty solar sys­tems could fit in the space that sep­a­rates this dou­ble gem.

Here is the star known as 61 Cyg­ni, which often can be seen with the naked eye by those far from city lights, a non­de­script star, one star among thou­sands in the body of the Swan, famous as the first star whose dis­tance was mea­sured, by Bessel in 1838; 61 Cyg­ni is 11 light years away, 65 tril­lion miles. Of the naked-eye stars it is the fifth-clos­est to Earth, after the sun, Alpha Cen­tau­ri, Sir­ius, and Epsilon Eridani.

Here is the Lagoon Neb­u­la in Sagit­tar­ius, vis­i­ble under the best con­di­tions to the naked eye as a patch of fuzzy light; obser­va­to­ry pho­tographs show dark reefs of gas a dust, col­lect­ed and con­densed by grav­i­ty. Even now in the Lagoon stars are being born by the hundreds.

Here is the bright­est knot of the Veil Neb­u­la, a lace of fil­a­men­tary gas in the shape of a ques­tion mark, as del­i­cate as the mists that cling to hills in Chi­nese paint­ings. Once from a dark hill­side I glimpsed the Veil Neb­u­la in pow­er­ful binoc­u­lars, the shred­ded enve­lope of an explod­ed star; 30,000 years ago a star 1500 light years away blew itself to bits.

Here is the Ring Neb­u­la in Lyra, a ghost­ly smoke ring for the observ­er with a tele­scope, drift­ing in the star­ry night. At the cen­ter of the ring is a hot blue dwarf star, the skele­ton of a much more mas­sive star that shrugged off its out­er layers.

Here are the two del­i­cate con­stel­la­tions Sagit­ta and Del­phi­nus, the dart and the dol­phin. Sagit­ta and Del­phi­nus are mere hints of con­stel­la­tions, four and five 5th mag­ni­tude stars respec­tive­ly, con­stel­la­tions for the con­nois­seur of night’s faintest lights.

Celestial gifts

There are oth­er gifts of the sum­mer Milky Way; any good star guide will lead you to them. The Celes­tial Riv­er of sum­mer is banked with stars, pud­dled with light, shoaled with star­dust. There are fish here that flick the light years with their tails, and birds with galax­ies tucked beneath their wings like pin­feath­ers. With or with­out an instru­ment, the region is worth explor­ing. The only require­ment is a dark sky.

On sum­mer evenings Scor­pio dom­i­nates the sky in the south­east, the con­stel­la­tion the Chi­nese called the Azure Drag­on. Accord­ing to the astronomer Robert Burn­ham, the Azure Drag­on “is not the hideous maid­en-devour­ing mon­ster of medieval Chris­t­ian myth; he is the wise and majes­tic incar­na­tion of the awe­some pow­er and infi­nite splen­dor of Nature.” The Chi­nese imag­ined the Drag­on to be emerg­ing from the Celes­tial Riv­er, prepar­ing to descend to Earth to con­fer great bless­ings on those who do him reverence.

This is the sea­son of the year to rev­er­ence the pow­er and the splen­dor. On sum­mer evenings the Milky Way bounds the hori­zon like a leafy hedge. Neb­u­las bloom like flow­ers. Vega, Arc­turus and Antares are hung like Chi­nese lanterns in the branch­es of the trees. The bless­ings of the Drag­on are there for the taking.

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