The Harvest Moon, I’m told by the internet, is the full moon closest to the autumnal equinox, but you didn’t even need a wireless connection to glean the extra-special luminosity of the evening’s celestial orb; all you had to do was admire the Mini-Me shadow puppets it cast on the sand as the fire burned to glowing coals and the conversations rose like bona-fide fireworks bursting into patterned roses overhead.
Brother Botorff directed my attention to the western skyline where the fog nestled around the distant landmass like a scarf and I couldn’t help seeing Jay Gatsby’s green light blinking across the water.
My own perspective kept being drawn to our nearest celestial satellite and even though I showed up after water bottles and growlers had already been filled with and emptied of the homegrown cordial, it was all I could do to walk a straight line under its highlighting aura.
If you ever find yourself forgetting how unusual is this weekly confluence, just ask: when was the last time you stood around a bonfire that you got to by being outside the whole time; and if that’s not enough: free beer, friendly faces, and what meteorologists call an “Omega block” to keep things dryer than any Northwesterner in October has a right to even dream of.
As I pedaled in, a couple of early-exits passed by; I wondered whether I’d be too late to enjoy the mass conflagration; not to worry: from a quarter mile away whoops and hollers became audible; soon enough, bicycles everywhere, and sand in one’s shoes come morning.
A couple times I found myself in conversations that involved reminiscences, and one common theme was how long this has been happening; eight years, more or less, to my way of experience, but somehow, it keeps surprising.
The moon, after all, has been doing its thing every month for over four and a half billion years and that still has yet to get old.
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| photo by joeball |
My own perspective kept being drawn to our nearest celestial satellite and even though I showed up after water bottles and growlers had already been filled with and emptied of the homegrown cordial, it was all I could do to walk a straight line under its highlighting aura.
If you ever find yourself forgetting how unusual is this weekly confluence, just ask: when was the last time you stood around a bonfire that you got to by being outside the whole time; and if that’s not enough: free beer, friendly faces, and what meteorologists call an “Omega block” to keep things dryer than any Northwesterner in October has a right to even dream of.
As I pedaled in, a couple of early-exits passed by; I wondered whether I’d be too late to enjoy the mass conflagration; not to worry: from a quarter mile away whoops and hollers became audible; soon enough, bicycles everywhere, and sand in one’s shoes come morning.
A couple times I found myself in conversations that involved reminiscences, and one common theme was how long this has been happening; eight years, more or less, to my way of experience, but somehow, it keeps surprising.
The moon, after all, has been doing its thing every month for over four and a half billion years and that still has yet to get old.
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