The Moon’s cone of darkness

The Moon’s cone of darkness

An annular eclipse • Photo by Kevin Baird (CC BY SA 3.0)

Originally published 21 May 1984

The night has a shape and that shape is a cone. In Shel­ley’s “Prometheus Unbound” the Earth speaks this line: “I spin beneath my pyra­mid of night, Which point into the heav­ens, dream­ing delight.”

Astron­o­my and optics can prove that the Earth­’s shad­ow is cone-shaped and points dark­ly into sun­lit space. But it takes Shel­ley’s line to visu­al­ize night as a tall pyra­mid of dark­ness reced­ing from the globe.

Earth does indeed wear night like a wiz­ard’s cap. The wiz­ard’s cap is long and slim and points away from the Sun. It is 8000 miles in diam­e­ter at the rim, where it fits snug­ly on the Earth­’s brow. It extends to a ver­tex 860,000 miles from the Earth. The wiz­ard’s cap of shad­ow is a hun­dred times taller than it is wide at the base.

The Earth spins beneath its cone of night. The Earth orbits the Sun and its shad­ow cap goes with it, always point­ing toward infin­i­ty. In that dark­ling cap bad­gers scut­tle in ditch­es. Bats thrash the night air and squeal a cry that only chil­dren hear. Owls in oaks hoot at the Moon. In that dark­ling cap go pos­sums, fox­es, rac­coons, the crea­tures with the big eyes, glow-worms, will‑o’-the-wisps.

The Earth­’s cone of night reach­es out into space three times far­ther than the dis­tance to the Moon. The Moon’s orbit is slight­ly tipped to the plane of the Earth­’s motion about the Sun, so the Moon does not pass through the Earth­’s shad­ow on every month­ly cir­cuit of the Earth. Occa­sion­al­ly, when the cir­cum­stances are right, the Moon pass­es direct­ly through Earth­’s cone of night and we have an umbral eclipse of the Moon. This can hap­pen sev­er­al times a year, but in 1984 it will not hap­pen even once.

Like the Earth, the Moon also wears a cone of night and a lit­tle over a week from now — on May 30—its apex will almost touch the Earth, run­ning, in the Unit­ed States, on a line from New Orleans to Vir­ginia. Along this line the eclipse will be almost total, dark­en­ing the sky. In the New Eng­land area, the eclipse will be par­tial. With 90 per­cent of the Sun cov­ered, the sky will dark­en slight­ly. In the Boston area, it will begin at 11:31 a.m. and end at 2:34 p.m. Max­i­mum cov­er­age of the Sun will occur at 1:02 p.m.

The last eclipse of the Sun in the Boston area hap­pened on Feb. 26, 1979, but not many peo­ple noticed it — there was a sleet storm that day.

A wizard’s cap of darkness

Every object near a star casts a pyra­mi­dal shad­ow. If an astro­naut float­ing free in space were to put his feet toward the Sun, his wiz­ard’s cap of dark­ness would be 100 feet long.

The Moon’s cone of shad­ow, by coin­ci­dence, is almost exact­ly as long as the aver­age dis­tance of the Moon from the Earth — 240,000 miles. If the moon is near apogee (its great­est dis­tance from the Earth) when it pass­es between the Earth and the Sun, the ver­tex of its shad­ow will fall just short of the sur­face of the Earth. In this cir­cum­stance the Sun is still vis­i­ble around the Moon as a ring of bril­liant light, and we have what is called an annu­lar (“ring-shaped”) eclipse of the Sun.

When the Moon is not near apogee, its shad­ow reach­es to the Earth, and when the Moon pass­es between Earth and the Sun the apex of its shad­ow slices the Earth like the tip of a sur­geon’s knife. Those lucky enough to live with­in the swath of that stroke will expe­ri­ence on of nature’s most spec­tac­u­lar spe­cial effects, a total eclipse of the Sun. The last one occurred last July and was seen in the South Pacif­ic. View­ers of a total eclipse stand in the tip of Moon’s night, a few moments of bor­rowed dark­ness in day­time when baf­fled bad­gers peek from their bur­rows and owls hoot in wonder.

A feather touch

Some­times, when the Moon is just the right dis­tance from the Earth, its shad­ow brush­es the sur­face of the Earth as gen­tly as the tip of a feath­er and the eclipse of the Sun — such as the one next week — is at the bor­der­line between annu­lar and total. The Moon’s shad­ow will reach to with­in a nar­row dis­tance of the Earth­’s sur­face — a few score miles. The May 30 eclipse will be very close to total from New Orleans to Vir­ginia. The moun­tains on the Moon’s limb will reach to the Sun’s edge and cov­er it. For a few sec­onds, sun­light will glim­mer through lunar val­leys like dia­monds on a neck­lace, like a bowl of light reduced to its bro­ken glit­ter­ing rim.

Observers in New Eng­land who do not wish to trav­el south will still have the oppor­tu­ni­ty to observe a par­tial eclipse of the Sun. For a few min­utes, the face of the Sun will be almost com­plete­ly cov­ered by the Moon, and the day will be eeri­ly dimmed.

In Shel­ley’s poem, this is the full line the Earth speaks: “I spin beneath my pyra­mid of night, Which points into the heav­ens, dream­ing delight, Mur­mur­ing vic­to­ri­ous joy in my enchant­ed sleep; As a youth lulled in love-dreams faint­ly sigh­ing, Under the shad­ow of his beau­ty lying, Which round his rest a watch of light and warmth doth keep.” It is one if the loveli­est images in all of lit­er­a­ture. And the Moon responds: “As in the soft and sweet eclipse, When soul meets soul on lover’s lips.” On May 30, the Moon will inter­rupt the Sun’s watch of light and warmth with a kiss so gen­tle it will be bare­ly felt.


South Amer­i­ca just wit­nessed a total solar eclipse on July 2, 2019. The next annu­lar solar eclipse vis­i­ble in North Amer­i­ca will be in 2023, and a total solar eclipse is vis­i­ble in 2024. ‑Ed.

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