The Evening Glass

I stepped inside from the patio and climbed onto the wide oak windowsill. Resting upon three folding brass legs was an antique miniature spyglass, its barrel tilted low against the dark wood. Leaving my lightsaber dormant at my sash, I unhurriedly cradled the polished metal. With careful fingertips, I eased the knurled thumb-screw loose and tilted the brass tube upward toward the night pane. When the collar tightened back into place, a distant silver point of starlight met the center of the cold glass objective. I rested my palms against the sill, watching the quiet cosmos settle into focus.

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