We have houseguests this weekend, and they're sleeping in a room that is just off the front entryway in the house. Because I'm an early riser, and because I didn't want to wake them, I walked around the outside of the house from the back door to pick up the Sunday papers, left on the front step.
It's 10° F (-18° C), so I was pretty focused on getting out and back in a hurry, but I did stop to look up in the blackest of night skies to see
I love the moon. Implacable, wise, huge, always changing. I love the fat orange moonrise that comes in early evening. I love the aching moon, hanging overhead. I love the moon setting in the west, while tendrils of dawn stream toward it.
I also love stories about the moon: