27 09 2015

We took a walk tonight, the girls and I, after our dinner-friend had gone home but before bed, the double stroller, the chatty now preschooler, and the sweetly sleepy over-tired baby who had been begging for this walk since first thing this morning. On our way out, we chased orange-then-scarlet-pink clouds toward the elementary school, and when they faded to grey and we turned home, we found ourselves face-to-face with the gaze of the “supermoon.” Looming up over the houses like that, it WAS super–supremely luminescent, shining right through trees still thick with summer leaves, bigger than streetlights and stop signs. “I want to catch it!” Evanny cried, sitting up straighter at first sight (I stopped them in the middle of the road, looking around and around for danger, but reckless enough still to have to linger drawing their attention to the sudden beauty the clear road ahead revealed) and tracking it across our chase through the neighbourhood. “I want to catch it and have it and keep it. And eat it up!” I laughed at this last bit. “And what do you think the moon would taste like, if you could catch it and eat it?” “Like cheese!” I asked why she thought so, but she had no answer. It just seems the way of things, apparently. “It’s following us home!” she noted with glee, as we stopped for another peek at another cross-street. “That’s the thing about the moon,” I promised her. “It goes wherever you go. You don’t have to keep it, because it already follows you. Sometimes it’s big and sometimes it’s little. Sometimes it’s round and sometimes it’s a tiny crescent. Sometimes it’s there in the morning and sometimes late at night, but it’s never gone for long. The moon will always be with you.”
Later, after they were tucked snoring their tiny snores into their respective beds (a misleading line which gives the doubly deceitful impression that this is a task both simple and linear), I crept outside to watch the crescent disappear simultaneously behind both shadow and cloud cover. 

Super little moon sailing over the backyard maples

After another check of everyone, one last peek, from the back window, of the “bloody” orb looming like a crack-ready terra cotta egg in the sky of a wind-tossed, chime-filled night buzzing with movement and insect energy: a super night, and a super colour for the moon to carry, but so high in the sky now, with only clouds and treetops to paint impressions of scale, the disc itself looked moon-sized again, having handed off the superlative to the wind and wildness, content to burn up in her little phoenix fire in cool solemnity, no need for more than the usual amount of splendour. For me, the splendour had already happened anyway, and by now was fast asleep.
“If I could catch it,” she said, “down by the tree trunks, like a balloon that came down, I would grab it up and THROW it back into the sky!” Splendid.  

And from our neighbor’s proper camera rather than my grainy phone image: the cool-red phoenix egg aglow




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