Altazimuth Amy Miller The simplest way to find a star: up to Orion's bright buckle, then clean left, infinite right— a matter of which hand to take. Forget the equatorial, oily one-ton mount, darling of the telescope shop, nickel-black teeth and gears, the one they say you'll want. Then it's too much, dragging it down the dark walk into the gophered garden. You'll wish you had one as simple as the sky— black board, light flying into your eye this second, ones and twos of nursery mathematics: Over, up, there.

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