Leo, and I ain’t Lion
Every time I see the constellation Leo, the Lion, rise majestically in the northeast, I think of a little poem by the French poet Guillaume Apollinaire:
Every time I see the constellation Leo, the Lion, rise majestically in the northeast, I think of a little poem by the French poet Guillaume Apollinaire:

MARINA DEL REY, Calif. — A stolen Rembrandt sketch was too hot to handle for thieves, and even the detective who held the 17th century artwork in white-gloved hands Tuesday admitted he was nervous. After all, it was only days earlier that the 350-year-old artwork worth $250,000 was swiped from the lobby of a seaside hotel.
Our Milky Way galaxy is often described as a flattened disk of hundreds of billions stars. That description leaves out some of our galaxy’s most interesting parts. Hovering above and below the main disk are the suburbs of our galactic city — 150 or so globular clusters of stars. Along with some stray stars and occasional gas molecules, globular clusters are the main constituents of what is more properly called the “galactic halo.”
Draco, the Dragon, was an important constellations to the ancients. The ancient Egyptians even worshipped a single star within its environs. The star isn’t particularly bright, and these days, it isn’t even particularly well placed in the sky. Why was it so important?
The Milky Way, our galaxy, is one of hundreds of billions (or trillions — who knows?) of tiny islands of stars sprinkled throughout the vast cosmic ocean of space. Seen from the top, galaxies are often shaped like flat spirals — children’s pinwheels of uncountable stars. Seen from the side, galaxies look much like lenses bulging at the center and tapering to points at the edges. Most of a galaxy’s stars are spread throughout the lens-like structure, the galaxy proper.
Leo, the Lion, has always had great religious significance. I’ve heard it said, for example, that to the ancient Hebrews, Leo is the lion that is the symbol of the tribe of Judah.