Moonrise
The eastern slope of the hill was white before dawn, bordered by the filigree of rime covered bushes, a lighter shade of pale with the dark statues of bare trees beyond. Between the ridges of hills in the distance there were pale clouds of mist. Beyond them, at the horizon, the sky was soft orange shading up to blue. And in that orange band of sky hung the pale sliver of the waning moon rising. Can you see it in your mind’s eye, that pale sliver of moon in the orange sky echoing the white in the landscape? I’ve often wondered why some sights make my heart leap. What is it about that view of hills and sky and moon that speaks directly to my cells?
Winter, like the waning moon, is on the run. It’s not even the ides of March yet, so it will likely come roaring back. But today and tomorrow it will be warm enough to melt most of the snow. Already, the patch of ground above the septic tank is visible, covered in winter mashed brown and green grass. The crows are still calling as they have all winter, but they’re joined by returning songbirds now, with their high, clear music. I can hear, but haven’t yet seen the birds up here, but there was a fabulous flock of cedar waxwings filling a bare tree in Cooperstown the other day, and Peter reports a tree full of redwing blackbirds this morning. Another trip around the sun. Earth heads towards the vernal equinox, and even if more snow comes, the end of winter is in sight.
Life in this covid winter has seemed more like hibernation than usual. There haven’t been the concerts or dinner parties or mah jongg games to draw us out. Walking down the hill today without a hat and with Charlie trotting beside me for the first time in months, I did feel like I was emerging from a long sleep. Jay had cleared the driveway so thoroughly that I could walk without watching my feet or worrying about a slip. Charlie has been out several times a day all through the winter, of course, but I haven’t let him go all the way down to Gulf because it’s been too cold and I didn’t want him wandering off into the snow. But today he was happy to walk the whole hill, sniffing the rich breeze.
Perhaps I’ve written so little this winter because there seemed to be so little to write about. There were beautiful sunrises and sunsets, of course, and the bright planets on the rare clear nights. There were snow storms and wind. There were the wonderful smells of Jay’s cooking. But it all felt low key compared to a walk in the sun without a hat on. Tasks that were easy to put off all winter seem more inviting now that they don’t call for hat, gloves, boots and layers of clothes. And now too, there is the prospect of dinners with friends. Four vaccinated people unmasked at our dining table seems pretty safe – maybe even six.
We have been so fortunate through this pandemic, because of where we are physically and because of our stage in life. I’m mindful of what a strain this has been, for young families, for medical people and other essential workers, for small business owners, and for the millions who lost jobs and the hundreds of thousands who lost beloved family members and friends. It’s so easy for me to look at a beautiful moonrise in the dawn and think only about its beauty, with no dread of what the day may bring.