I'm Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown.

If you've been listening to The Slowdown for a while now, or if you follow me on social media, you know I love the sky.

I ogle the sky. When I take walks with my kids and pull out my phone to take pictures of the clouds and the light,

they don't even wait for me anymore.

They roll their eyes, like, there she goes again, and keep walking, so I have to run to catch up.

It's kind of a bit between us now.

I will say this, though, for as silly as they seem to think I am, always tipping my head way back and marveling at the sky, when I'm not with them, they sometimes send me photos of clouds.

Enough said. Sometimes we are all caught staring at the sky to catch a glimpse of meteor showers

or the northern lights or an eclipse. Suddenly, it's socially

acceptable to stand in your yard and stare up, open-mouthed. I can blend right in. Everyone, too,

is taking and sharing the same photos, which ultimately end up on social media.

The last total solar eclipse, my kids and I put on cardboard eclipse glasses and spread a big quilt in our backyard where we could lay and look up.

I could see neighbors and the yards around us doing the same thing. We were all ogling the

sky. When totality happened, the sky got darker and the air felt cooler.

Our patio lights, which automatically come on at dusk, lit up.

It was so eerie.

And at the same time, it was so nice to be looking up with everyone else, sharing the same

experience. Today's poem transported me back to that shared experience. Solar Eclipse by Amy Nusukumatato. Hot Springs National Park. Four-year-olds ask about 250

questions a day, so by the time they are five, they will have asked about 180,000 questions.

Most of us stop asking anything at all in middle school. Most of us don't need to be told

not to look at the sun during an eclipse.

But the geese at the lake

...