At The Time Of The Snow Moon





The moon is a frozen pond.
It is The Snow Moon. The Hunter’s Moon.
Someone says a lunar eclipse will happen this night.
And a comet!
We are like children with torches forecasting midnight feasts…
But we slumber deep, lungs with cold air replete, minds a-wander.
An early start.
Wake to the sparsest spaced flakes - ten to a cubic furlong, perhaps.
(Perhaps we dreamt this precise detail?)
Blearish eyes are rubbed.
Ahead, a deer, in no danger from ice-wary driving, springs across tarmac.
From a canopy’s winter bones, an owl swoops, parallel.
In a blink, a hedge bird breaks our reveries.
Clips the car, sends feathers a-puff.





Comments

Geo. said…
You make me see morning in a new way. Beautiful post.
Lisa Southard said…
A treasured compliment, received with gratitude :-)

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