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Chinese astronomers Hi and Ho were put to death for failing to foretell the solar eclipse of 2169 B.C. I myself was taken by surprise in 1979. A sifting of light pulled me away

from my baby’s morning nap and onto the edge of the porch. A line in the west, the leading edge of shadow dividing light and darkness, swept toward me, then over me. I was in darkness. Silent stars

stepped forward. The hubbub of birds fell silent for a moment of minutes. Then from the west, again, fast-forward dawn, a broom held by hands in a heaven, shaking birds from branches and brushing out those stars.

This morning fifteen years later, my children ready for the school bus tell me an almost total eclipse is coming. (Oh, Hi and Ho, had you not children in school?) They go. I turn on the television, expecting

news to break into programming, but it does not. So, I go outside. While I wait, I weed. A patch of sky west of the sun turns from white to cornflower. For an hour

morning is a 40 watt bulb. Birds hop slower, but keep peeping. For some seconds the air chills. Then it warms. A rooster somewhere crows, “Only this? Only this?”

I was ready to glimpse hidden stars, to feel light and darkness clearly defined. I was prepared today to be startled. I rise from something less than I’d planned on. Nevertheless, I’m not killed

for being surprised.