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La Luna.
Urban nighttime clouds are never dark, not ever: they catch the city light and hold it in place. It's a different kind of brightness than even a few miles out of a small town, and it's a brightness made all the more remarkable when there's a moon involved. After the family dinner tonight, I walked two blocks to the park and stood at the edge of a field, atop a rock outcropping with no one around, air on my face in the gentle summer night.
There were only three or four stars to speak of, if that, and one of those might well have been a planet. But it wasn't a night for stars, anyway. The clouds and the moon. The clouds themselves were flattened out, planes moving across the surface of the sky, solid through until the edges, where you could see for a moment, with a light just behind them, the depth they had, the weight. A moment, before they passed along, before they started to fade. And the darkness seemed all the deeper, for not seeing anything within it, for having the clouds to cut off everything else.
The trees framed what I could see of the clouds and the moon and the sky, unchanging, showing me how far away I was from what I was looking at.
The moon was hung in half, two nights before the solstice, almost ready for the least amount of night all year. Pale as an egg, its texture coming more from my memories of its appearance than what I was looking at, sometimes deepening the color of the captured light in the clouds and sometimes hidden away entirely. It all depended.
The clouds moved slowly enough, west to east across the sky, I could see what was coming. I could watch the moon turn the edge of a cloud ragged, fading, frayed. The illusions of softness, and solid wind. I could watch the clouds slip over the moon and the moon slip out from under them, and see where there was a break in them, a big, heavy, solid break. As the smaller pieces collected about.
I watched the clouds pass between me and the moon, watched them dull it, tease me, felt the breeze over my face as I looked up and saw the moon come out from behind the clouds, all the brighter, all the more beautiful for knowing it was coming: the solidity of the light in the dark.
And then it was gone again.
It's rare enough to be out at night in the city. Out safely, that as well. Out safe and to have a moment of deep beauty up above, something I almost never have in my life right now.
All the more reason to share when it happens.
There were only three or four stars to speak of, if that, and one of those might well have been a planet. But it wasn't a night for stars, anyway. The clouds and the moon. The clouds themselves were flattened out, planes moving across the surface of the sky, solid through until the edges, where you could see for a moment, with a light just behind them, the depth they had, the weight. A moment, before they passed along, before they started to fade. And the darkness seemed all the deeper, for not seeing anything within it, for having the clouds to cut off everything else.
The trees framed what I could see of the clouds and the moon and the sky, unchanging, showing me how far away I was from what I was looking at.
The moon was hung in half, two nights before the solstice, almost ready for the least amount of night all year. Pale as an egg, its texture coming more from my memories of its appearance than what I was looking at, sometimes deepening the color of the captured light in the clouds and sometimes hidden away entirely. It all depended.
The clouds moved slowly enough, west to east across the sky, I could see what was coming. I could watch the moon turn the edge of a cloud ragged, fading, frayed. The illusions of softness, and solid wind. I could watch the clouds slip over the moon and the moon slip out from under them, and see where there was a break in them, a big, heavy, solid break. As the smaller pieces collected about.
I watched the clouds pass between me and the moon, watched them dull it, tease me, felt the breeze over my face as I looked up and saw the moon come out from behind the clouds, all the brighter, all the more beautiful for knowing it was coming: the solidity of the light in the dark.
And then it was gone again.
It's rare enough to be out at night in the city. Out safely, that as well. Out safe and to have a moment of deep beauty up above, something I almost never have in my life right now.
All the more reason to share when it happens.
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