In Māori star lore, Scorpius carries different names as the year turns. In April, May and June it is Manaia ki te Rangi. Come July through September, it becomes Te Matau a Māui, the great fish-hook arcing across the sky. In October and November, it’s the prow of the waka of Tamarēreti, the canoe easing down the Milky Way toward summer. Then, at the beginning of December, Scorpius slips into the blaze of the sun and vanishes; by the end of that month, it returns, reborn in the morning sky.
I like to think of this scene as a kind of small-town parade at day’s end: the hook, the prow, the sting, Antares holding its post, Mercury striding out front with a bit of shine, Mars ambling behind, shoulders hunched, already halfway to tomorrow. Stand a minute in the cooling air and let the stories braid themselves — the science of planets sliding along the ecliptic; the memory of navigators who read these curves like coastline; the pleasure of noticing a pattern and calling it by name.









