Housatonic — I’m not certain enough of my astronomy to know the reason why, but even in today’s full sunlight, the moon in its rapid post-full decaying, its northern edge ragged as a threadbare quilt, was easily visible in the northwestern sky.
For the past two nights, its glow cowed the dark with its effulgence, but before its waning, the same full moon turned two-faced as a senator.
On the first night, the moon, trailing a still and muggy day, rose immense and orange, the man-in-the-moon face as boozy and indistinct as any old drunk’s.
No air stirred. No water rippled. Golden mist eased life’s edges. It was a serenader’s moon, a romancer’s moon, an easy, lazy, smooth-sailing, moon which might lull one to believe the sun and warmth was forever.
But the following night, after the swift passage of a cold front, among the crickets’ and katydids’ chilly trilling, the same moon rose just as full, but now sharp-edged and brittle.
Deprived of its softening aura, its timeless face, features drawn sharp, scrutinized carefully, demanded that its onlookers, pay it its due as well. Do you know me? Do you remember me this way? What might I portend?
A man, washed over by the cool, fresh, air-tide stands agape, his face to the heavens. Race memory, whispers, reminding this night. He hopes he’s done what he could. And he knows it will be many months before he knows the fat, easy-going, orange, moon again.
