Poetry
Chasing the Blood Moon
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Electric hype—astronomy neophytes opine every night. The Wolf Blood Moon. Curiously intriguing. “Where did the green cheese go?” asks a six-year-old friend. Did mitochondrial Eve, my Inca grandmother, see Blood Moon? Frightened whispering. Did red jaguar eat the moon? Dogs bark. We shake our spears. Sing healing songs for the moon. It must not come to earth. Hawk Hill on the Marin Headlands, high above blue waters. Empty sky space without jamming city lights. Across the Golden Gate Bridge, pumping anticipation in my heart. Light rain dulls twilight shadows. White traffic barriers. Orange cones. Road closure. Stop. This cannot be. The illogical absurdity of government shutdown. Frenzied peripatetic drive back to the city. Legion of Honor—pervasive dark serenity. Wait to see that elusive illusory illusion. A bright yellow moon floating between Altocumulus and Stratocumulus cloud fusions. Inevitable failure. Hunger predominates. Drive to Westborough to Five Guys. Walking in, I say goodbye to the skies. There, glowing bright—the Waxing Gibbous Moon. Not Blood or Red. Just glorious rich brick Rust. Satiated with Idaho Burbanks French Fries. Finally happy. |