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The dogstar and the shepherd moon herd the stars into the sky. Magnetic fields are lush underhoof, this far from the naked eye. On Earth, Arecibo is listening for whispers. Hubble is lost in the deep. Galileo was tucked in a long time ago, and Hawking is fast asleep.

Spacegirl stops by to pet a stargrazer, close-cropping the velvet of night. “Play a song, shepherd?” she asks. He obliges, his harp strung with silver light.

She claps her hands, gunbelt askance, as the solar wind starts to sing. The stars shoot glances; a comet dances; and Saturn, as always, rings.