Blank sky.

Chicago.

It's weird that there are no stars in the city. This isn't a new revelation, but it occurs to me looking out the window at this moment, at the blank night sky of Chicago. Growing up in the suburbs of southeastern Pennsylvania, I really thought I'd seen a lot of stars. More than I could ever imagine counting, more constellations than I could remember.

Then I spent a few summer weeks in central Arizona. An hour's drive north of Phoenix, surrounded by mesas, century trees and empty space, with bone-dry air, the stars were beautiful. Stunning. You could lay on your back and see the sweeping disc of the Milky Way, with visible stars across an amazing range of color, size and brightness. Shooting stars and satellites - the latter just drifting along - were visible just about every night. Just to lay down, chatting idly, watching the sky was enough to fill an evening.

Here, though, no one seems to miss it. I suppose most have never seen a sky like that. Even before electricity, I'd imagine the sky was never that crisp and clear above the shores of Lake Michigan.