marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

the moon and more things

Even as I walk down the street the moon shifts in color, from red to rich orange to gold, and even a very pure shade of gold.

The morning glories lace around the mailbox, and in the morning, the blooms are velvety purple.

In the roadside green of forest, a narrow blaze of red is almost rusty in its glory.

The morning sky is clear, cloudless, blue, but the gibbous moon hangs in it, its darker parts only blue, like a rounded cloud.

In the tree-filled lot, the canopy is thick and darkly green, giving a clear sight through to where the sapling are growing green and letting the sunlight blaze through and make them more lambent than emeralds in their pale green.

The moon, waning, just barely still gibbous, is so flat a red that it does not seem to glow.

A bush is dying from the middle. To either side, true green, but down the middle, like a skunk's, a stripe of rusty red.

A rustle in the brush. A brief glimpse of fur as the creature darts to another bush -- a second as it darts for a third -- and then it darts out into the lawn, and a tiny little rabbit, far smaller than a squirrel, its fur the mingled browns and grays of the wild, eyes me.

Drought, drought, drought. The lawn is mostly the drab, dull, faded amber. The stream at the bottom of the valley is overgrown in places -- once, where it cascades in a thin sheet over concrete, it goes into a clear pool, but elsewhere the duck weed grows its pale, bright green clumps as serenely as on a pond. And when the rain comes -- oh glorious rain -- the greenery growing in the banks is beaten down after, but only here and there are the dark streaks where water flows, and the duckweed still clings to the banks, unperturbed.

A big black cat prowls across the road, moving swift and lithely, like a panther.

A hawk is flying over the road, a long branch in its talons. Flap, flap, flaps as I wonder, since it's not building a nest in September.

a black squirrel lopes through the grass, bounding along with hops as high as a bunny's.

A pale glow behind the chimney and roof of the next house. I see the moon even as I stand up, but still I go upstairs and look at the moon. I wonder if its radiance is the supermoon, or that the moon is full when so often I see it gibbous, or just knowing of the supermoon makes me think of it as bright, but it glows so brilliantly white. I await the eclipse. It starts like a charcoal smudge against the bright rim and slowly eats in -- the moon remaining lily white -- and look very odd, almost straight up and down, and arcing in, unlike the gibbous moon. The arc becomes clearer as it progresses -- at one-third in, the moon is very peculiarly plump crescent. (And even then, then -- the earthshine must have been bright -- you can make out the full arc of the moon, with its light touched with ruddiness, though the center is less bright. At one half it looks less peculiar, which creates even more of a nagging awareness that something is wrong with it. But it swiftly passes through the moments when it looks natural, and started to look like a truncuated and fat crescent, unlike the slender, fragile moon one can sometimes see over sunrises or sunsets. The last moments before totality the moon looks like an eye diagram, with the last remaining white like a lens (it seems to bulge) with a ruddy filmy eyeball behind it. And then, at totality, it is a misty marble of ruddiness.
Tags: nature
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