“this is an illusion,” he said. he reached up, and started moving stars. he spoke quietly while he worked, pointing out Venus and Polaris and Mars. his slim hands moved smoothly from the hunter to the lady’s hair, down the dragon’s spine, selecting here a trio, there a curl, there a line. with a sweep of one arm he cleared out a field between the bull and bear, and placing what he’d plucked he formed a maiden, a milestone, a mare.
that’s still how i remember him: tall and thin and pale, smiling skyward in silhouette, shaking stardust from his nails. i sat there star[ing, ]struck by how a pattern of few points could paint a picture so prolific in its summoning of scenes. “that’s the way of the astroglyphic,” he said then, “making much of few, and far between.”