On an early October evening I stepped out of my door to be pleasantly surprised by this string of pearls in the sky.
It was approaching nautical twilight. The brightest stars were becoming slowly visible and the last traces of sunset glow had faded. Jupiter, Saturn and Venus formed a vaulted arc across the sky and over our rooftops marking the plane of the ecliptic. The yellow dot on the left was unmistakably Jupiter, lofted high in the sky. It’s light a beacon frozen in time. Calm, unchanging, out of reach as if on purpose. Saturn was a few degrees to the west, and a billion miles away. Fainter, yet distinct. In the west, Venus, easily mistaken for an airplane light, shone through a wisp of cloud, racing for the distant rooftops. In the center of the view, a three quarters moon hung close to the southern horizon - near Sagittarius. The teapot’s spout tipped towards the core of the Milky Way hidden behind the suburban light dome. In a few days the galactic core would dip below the horizon to hibernate in its winter lair.
The sky was less than perfect - a hint of haze, a thin veil of cloud obscuring the moon and Venus. And yet this moment, this arrangement seemed special. A congregation of visitors that showed up at my front door - unannounced - spanning the entire field of view as if to not leave the viewing to chance.
I grabbed my camera - plopped an ultra wide lens on it, set it on a tripod and clicked away.
The above is a single shot processed separately for the sky and earth - in an effort to mimic what the scene looked like to the naked eye.
