Maybe it's the moon. Maybe that feathery, fluttery feeling of anticipation is incited by the full moon's tugging at our insides. In any case, it has been with me since about 5:00 yesterday evening.
I was visiting an artist's studio on a remote hilltop in Maine. The sun was setting as we arrived, J. and I, and the vista was stunning - the sharp winter angles of sunset light, punctuated by lifelike outdoor sculptures of wildlife in motion, in bronze.
When I emerged an hour later from the studio and climbed a hill to the parking area, I found myself under a vast bowl of sky space - 360 degrees of twilight. To the west, the final, deep orange dregs of sunset hung over the horizon. To the east was the perfect white globe of a full moon rising.
I knew that I would see that same moon at the other end of its arc in the morning. My 6am walk was long before the sun's arrival in this dark time of year. The up side of that was that the moon's brilliance remained undiminished. The dogs and I walked through a wash of milky moonlight casting shadows as we traversed the fields.
It just about took my breath away - the moon's gleaming path across new ice on the pond. The back field, covered in a mosaic of snow patches, sparkled with captured moonlight.
You just never know how exquisite it might feel to get up for an early bus on a Sunday morning in December.
sun coming up, from the bus window--
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