That was the Eclipse that was (Monday April 8, 2024)

 That was the eclipse that was, the bringer together eclipse:

 

 that brought the astronomers, the birders, and the composers and conductors together.

Friends ( who are always together, helping others who naturally are friends, too, even when 1000s of Km and a dozen time zones apart.)

The Ad-mins, UC-min, "real", teachers,  lawyer;
The ushers, the popcorn makers and the TV guides to NASA's live streaming,
the countless helpers who did uncountable good deeds,

those who stood and waited, 

 the new traditional story tellers with cell phones and emails to share their experience

And the old:
Grandfather Sun, Grandmother Moon, and Mother Earth
According to the teachings of the Anishinabe culture of central North America,
the first of all the mothers, Nokomis or Grandmother Moon, dwells in the heavens
near her daughter, Mother Earth. From there, Nokomis keeps watch over her children,
gently leading them through the night. Mother Earth nourishes and cares for all her
children in the plant, animal, and human worlds. Just as life comes from Mother Earth,
it returns to her, completing the circle of life. Each day, Grandfather Sun, the
"one who brings morning", gives light and warmth to his children. Together,
Mother Earth and Grandfather Sun provide the gift of life to all.
The heartbeat of Mother Earth is echoed in the drumbeat of the Anishinabe.
Even Wolf, who sings to the Moon, bids us not to forget our beginnings with Nokomis,
our Grandmother.

 When I visited Capilano in June 1999, I was told that it was the Raven who tried to eat the Sun, burnt his beak and scorched his feathers black until he spat out the Sun and let it be free.

The cleaner-uppers

and near the Zenith, the Syzygy - for you scrabble lovers, I think the word is nearly impossible?
You need some blanks?

The sky filled in the blanks with Clouds here - I learned that little Grimsby was spared? They saw totality who were present. Sadly, out out brief candle -

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

WOB