Moon Time

July Pumpkin Moon, Deb Marshall art

Moon Time

I came over the top of the hill in Enfield Tuesday night around 10 pm, on my way home from the Upper Valley, and reached the spot where the tree canopy opens up to the sky – and almost drove off the road. “What the hell is that?!” I actually shouted out loud to no one but myself. It was huge, more oval than round, burnt-orange color, and hanging in the sky what looked to be not so far from my car. I actually ducked. It took me a few moments to collect myself and gather together my alarm-scattered wits and breath to realize it was the moon – a July moon that would have made a better-than-great harvest moon, bigger – and less round – than any moon I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen some wicked big ones from time to time from the top of that particular hill.

It raced ahead of me all the way home, and I lost sight of it below the tree line only when I was pretty much at my driveway. By the time I’d parked and walked around the garage to take a look above the trees across our field, the moon had shrunk down to about normal size and shape, but was still that over-ripe pumpkin color. Seems like Lady Moon was playing some games with us, and I’ve got to say, starting around the solstice last month and continuing on through this week following the full moon, the natural energies that we often don’t notice unless the cats and dogs or Crazy Uncle Arthur are acting up near the full moon night seem to be particularly strong and affecting most of us, noticeably. I haven’t had a patient in all that time who hasn’t reported unusual fatigue, or written me checks dated 2014, or forgotten appointments altogether, or some other looney (from the Latin luna: moon) thing.  Not to mention catching some strange, serious summer illnesses, which we might call moon fevers.

Even my garden’s acting up: I’ve picked a handful of ripe cherry tomatoes and a zucchini squash, but my peas have just barely started to set pods and, in one entire bed of parsnips, only one (yes, 1) seed germinated - which is bad even for the notoriously poor-to-germinate parsnip family.

I did notice the fireflies are out in spite of the often cool nights, when the Husband and I were crossing the field for the 40^th time trying to lure the very bad mister Catman from his well-hidden hidey hole on the night he decided to go on a full-moon toot. He and his furry sister aren’t allowed out after dark, and they usually sashay around to the screen tent on the wart near dusk so we can capture them; that night Catman had moon-doin’s on his mind and couldn’t be found in any of the spots he usually patrols before coming in for the night, including his giant patch of catnip. He ignored my regular forays out into the field, plaintively calling and shaking the treat bag; and we couldn’t pick up a glint of cat-eyes when the Husband swept the puckerbrush at the edge of the woods with the flashlight, which sometimes gives Catman’s lair away (one of these days we’re going to accidentally corner a skunk that way, almost certainly). The Bad Boy returned home at 10:30, after the Husband’s bedtime, on his own: time for pills and treats! – and wanted out again as soon as those were consumed. He’s now grounded – he’s not allowed to stay out later than 5. That’ll teach him.

I haven’t seen Moosie who I danced with for miles back in June (see “Planting Season? Ha!”) since that night; I assume he’s found a more appropriate dance partner. I have, however, encountered several deer and one quite full-grown moose during my night travels, all of whom were willing to move politely off the road as I approached. I also saw a couple of turkeys with a small herd of baby turkeys (turklets?) with them – must have been two separate clutches of eggs, because some of the youngstahs were duck-sized and some were still little fluffy things. 

One of the big winds we had recently blew the front and floor off the birdhouse we attach to the arbor in the garden, and I discovered them on the ground when I was weeding. I looked into the remains of the house and found a bird’s nest with nothing in it, which I cleaned out, then took the structure down for repairs. A little later I found a perfect, dark-blue-sky-colored undamaged egg about 10 feet away under the cherry tree, which I assume came from the damaged bird house since I couldn’t find a nest anywhere in the tree. I hunted about and didn’t find any other eggs, and I wonder about it because the wind would have had to blow the egg sideways from the remaining walls of the nest for it to land where I found it, which isn’t very likely. So – was someone taking advantage and stealing eggs? And if so – who? And how did they come to lose one and not damage it?

I tried looking up the nest and egg on the internet to see what bird might have made them, because I didn’t get a look at the birds using the nest this summer. There weren’t speckles on the deep blue egg, and it seems that it could have been either a robin’s (usually speckled eggs, but not always) or bluebird’s. It made me a little sad; last summer it was a cheery sight to watch the parent birds flying back and forth feeding their young. The Husband will repair the house and we’ll hang it again, and with any luck some birds will try it out again.

Nights have been filled with the hoo-hooing of owls for several months now, which seem to be moving from one side of the house, earlier in the late evening, to the other side of the house, after midnight. I haven’t caught sight of them, either – I imagine it’s a pair – and wish I could. Where are they living, what are they saying, how many are there? I do so wish, sometimes, that we could pop into a critter’s brain to check out what they’re seeing and feeling and thinking – I’m guessing a few seconds might be more than enough time, but, oh, wouldn’t that be an adventure!

Full Moon Dreams, Deb Marshall art

Some nights I drift off to sleep with the hoo-ing of owls in my ears, the snuffling of barkie boys nearby, Catman purring by my neck. The blankets are soft and comfortable, and kind of curl around and nestle me into them; a little woof from a barkie boy tells me there’s a dream underway, and foot scrabbles soon follow. Lady Moon peers in the window, and I crack one eye open and greet her. Catman’s ears prick, and tail flicks, then he relaxes, and soon there are dog snores, cat snores and muffled sighing. The owls are still calling, calling…my eyelids shut, but I still hear the calling; and the blankets turn to down, and there’s an almost silent whooshing as wings pass through my still barely consciousness, and Lady Moon shines silver down over my nest…leaves rustle…toads sing…a soft breeze gently brushes my face…

…and I’m asleep.

Written for the blog, July 13, 2017