The three stars in a row are his belt. The ancient Greeks saw a giant hunter crossing the winter sky, club raised, his two hunting dogs at his heels. The red star on his shoulder, Betelgeuse, is an old giant near the end of its life — and the fuzzy patch hanging from his belt is a nursery where new stars are being born right now.

Ursa Major — a great bear, even if the storytellers gave it a tail no bear ever had. Its seven brightest stars make the Big Dipper. The two stars at the edge of the bowl are called the Pointers: draw a line up through them and you land on Polaris, the North Star. Find the Bear and you can always find north.

Crux — the smallest constellation in the sky, and for centuries the sailor's compass in southern seas. Run a line down its long bar and you land almost exactly on the south celestial pole: the Cross points south, and south is a way home. From Miami it only just peeks over the southern horizon on spring nights — low, shy, and really there.