"Sunbursts can appear in photographs when taking a picture of the sun through the diaphragm of a lens set to a narrow aperture due to diffraction; the effect is often called a sunstar."

Sunburst - Wikipedia

February morning, just after sunrise. Steam rising from the night-time drizzle, sun glint between cedar pickets. Astra, the kitten, is chasing a beetle as black and shiny as she is. Existential dread gathers in the sodden wood, but I tell myself to let it rise and disappear like the steam from the rain. It will be alright, I said.

And it was. 

Between Aldebaran and Pleiades

Thursday, 7:30 PM. 68 degrees, winds SSE at 9. The sky is clear, and all is quiet except for the windchimes in the trees. I'm standing under the garden archway, which is a little worse for wear after the recent freeze. I have one hand on the fence, balancing. I am keeping watch. For what? Oh, I don't know. Something I can't see yet, for this is always the way. You don't see it until it arrives. 

Through the branches of the juniper tree, I see a bright light in the northern sky. A plane heading south. It's distant yet, and I can hear no sound, only see the light growing larger as it approaches. Soon I can see that even though the sky looks clear, there must be a layer of mist higher up, as the lights from the plane make a halo as it comes. I lean on the fence and watch it flying, and for a moment everything feels so cozy, just the juniper and the plane and me. 

In a few more seconds I can hear the engine's hum, and the plane flies low overhead, cutting a path between Aldebaran and Pleiades. Soon it is out of sight, and now it's just me and the juniper, and the high layer of mist that I know is there but can no longer see. I wait a moment, and then it is time for me to go, too. 

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed. As ever. As always.