A Belated St. Pat's Nighthawk

Eclipse reports and more

Vol. 144, March 18th, 2025 Published a Day Early Online (Happy St. Patrick’s Day to Monday readers!)

You Are Here

The frogs sang on and off, and finally, a rooster crowed. “Wake up, slackers, it’s 4 AM.” There, by the pine tree, hung the shadow of the world. The moon, coppery-red, begin to climb out of the eclipse. I’d been up since 2:30, mesmerized by the spectacle. Three telescopes trained on it, but it was a simple pair of binoculars that knocked me over. Suddenly, the geometry made sense.

That line of shadow–that was here, like seeing the shadow of your own airplane in flight. The deep red staining the dark part of the moon was the refracted sunlight, filtering through our atmosphere. But that boundary between light and dark: that was the edge of the world, cast hundreds of thousands of miles through space, a giant YOU ARE HERE sign.

The wars and heroes, cowards, tyrants, and all the characters from Carl Sagan’s “Pale Blue Dot” idea, casting a line on the moon.

There I stood, quiet in the 4 am dark, looking past the pine tree, to the moon, then to distant stars, then out into deep space towards faraway galaxies in the Virgo supercluster.

I am here. So I did the only thing that made sense: threw up my hand in a shadow puppet. (I didn’t see anything.)

Then I went to bed, grateful.

If you’d like to read a more technical report, complete with a nerd-out about optics, have a look at Old Light, a sister publication.

Line of the World

The partially-eclipsed moon climbs out of totality. See the edge of light and dark? That’s the shadow of the world.

Album of the Week

Bing Crosby’s Irish Songbook Keep St. Pat’s all year with this collection of classics that’ll have Irish eyes (and yours) smiling.

Quote of the Week

“Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?” –James Joyce

Happy Birthday, Rimsky-Korsakov (1844)

This composer gave us Scheherazade, Flight of the Bumblebee, and more. He wove a love of the sea into his music with a Russian flair.

Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week

Feesh (fish). “I caught 6 feesh for supper tonight! Yippee!”

Write to Us!

The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect, published weekly. You’re invited to write back, or just enjoy reading. Let’s have some fun! It’s a social paper! Send stories, etc to: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or Joshurban@protonmail.com

Letters from Josh

(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #225)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Unlicensed Real Estate

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Hold me back. I might become a mogul. A baron. One of those guys who owns a whole mile of houses and puts horns on the ol’ Cadillac. Except it would be pure stress. Some of the tenants don’t pay rent. Others make it right tricky.

‘Round this time of year, my “unlicensed real estate” business kicks into high gear. Don’t worry, there are no back-alley sales of sheds or creative banking. I’m talking about critters, folks. (And sadly, I don’t have an old Cadillac.) It’s time to convince small animals to move into an assortment of wooden boxes I’ve placed ‘round the neighborhood.

Mr. & Mrs. Wood Duck are the fancy clients. Drake looks snazzy every time I see him, gleaming with bold stripes and a perfectly tailored feather suit. “Henrietta” seems to like the giant oversize bird house by the pond’s edge, and keeps inspecting it. Still, it’s more of a hands-off negotiation. Anytime I go to say hello they fly away in alarm, wings whistling. Is it my aftershave?

The Bluebird couples are constantly making warm, polite inquiries in their syrupy chirping. Or maybe they’re saying “Hey, check out that slacker on his back porch. He hasn’t caught a single bug all day.” I’m not sure. But I’ve got a stack of barn board ready to turn into bird houses for them. The American Bluebird Society has great plans on the internet for a one board bird house. Try it if you’d like. The neighborhood fence lines and a bluebird trail are still tempting for that mogul scheme...

But of all the critters to move into a box, the bees are the most mysterious. Two of my three hives made it through the winter. They’re content–for now. But they’re bees. They’ll fly away for no apparent reason, and move into your wall, and cause all sorts of trouble. But sometimes, the beekeeper can do something about it. A sharp eye is required in this season.

The colony grows rapidly in spring. I goofed last year, and didn’t put an extra box on their hive in time. Half of them left in a swarm. The process is fascinating. Worker bees will start to raise a new queen. Before she hatches, they prepare the reigning monarch for the swarm flight. Now, the existing queen has been busy laying eggs for a year or two, and eating all the snacks–resting on her laurels, thinking she’ll never have to leave the house. She’s not ready to wing it. The workers put her on a diet, and start to harass her here and there so she drops some weight.

I picture a dozen bee versions of Richard Simmons, but this is, of course, scientifically inaccurate. The workers are female.

When the time is right (usually in the spring), the old queen and about half of the workers fly out of the hive, and head for a new location. Scouts will have picked a few possibilities. Enter Josh’s Sunny Days Real Estate.

I’ve put a swarm trap out. It’s an old hive with some special smelly stuff in it, up in a tree stand. The bee scouts might find it, and suggest it to her Majesty. With luck, a swarm will move in, and boom, instant bees. It actually works. I always tell the bees that there’s zero down at closing, and I’ll throw in a moving truck. (There’s a slight honey fee due in July, but it’s negligible.) It’s a bummer when your bees swarm. It’s a boon when you catch someone else’s–or your own on the rebound. It all balances out around here.

–Josh