Easy to find the brightest star in the evening sky— at the end of the Little Dipper's handle, or pointing in a straight line from the two stars on one side of the Big Dipper. Early navigators knew this: at the ship's prow, their bodies straining forward and upward, trying to push the compass needle north. There are various star- gazing apps in our time, and so much more light, we call it pollution: these modern predicaments of excess which give us a sense of certainty —sometimes. At his preschool, my grandson says the teacher led the class in a guided meditation and he learned that light gives love. He sat on the carpet by the window, the geometry of dust-speckled rays falling on his face and shoulders. I wasn't there, but I know his mother's heart sped quick as a line toward this brightness, the way starry bodies circle around the celestial pole. Particle or wave, diffracting or expanding —could we patch a coat with it, unroll it like a map or billowing sail; gather it in a crystal sphere? What we see of light depends on what we ask of it, and in what ways.