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Category: sky

Twin Contrails

Twin Contrails

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Gray skies today but last Monday, on a warmish morning (40s instead of teens), I took my cup of tea out on the deck, wrapped up in a blanket and watched the birds at the feeder.

There was a softness to the air, and I could hear the sound of traffic from a busy road miles away. As the day warmed and brightened, I looked to my left. And there, emerging through the trees, twin contrails.

I bet they’re around most every morning. The 7 a.m. flights out of Dulles. I let my eye follow those white streaks as they emerged from behind the trees. I imagined I was aboard one of those jets, looking down at the rolling Virginia countryside, heading west.

Moon Alone

Moon Alone

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Yesterday’s lunar encounter happened later than Monday’s. I found the orb higher in the heavens, no trees or clouds to hide it.

A thick fog was swirling up from the ground, but it didn’t obscure the sky. So when I went outside after dark, the moon (the “wolf moon” I later learned), was throwing striped shadows across the backyard. There were bars of darkness and light and I stepped through them, like rungs of a ladder lying flat on the ground.

Venus was rumored to be in the neighborhood, but I didn’t see it. Only this moon, alone in a field of black.

Moon through Trees

Moon through Trees

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This week’s warming pattern has brought us back to November: The air is raw but not frigid; the trees are bare but not icy.

We’ve not yet crossed the boundary where a warming trend feels like spring. Instead, it feels like fall with all of winter yet to come.

Last evening, stepping out of the car to get the mail, I paused as I turned when I spotted this moon. It was a Halloween moon that was late to the party. I looked for the witch on her broomstick. I saw instead today’s clouds moving in on a freshening wind, and a blur of light both wan and enigmatic.

Ground Rules

Ground Rules

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Today the ground rules. The
heavens send us rain; the ground gives us ice. We are coated from the ground
up. We are bound to the ground, are creatures of it. From it we come and to it
we return. We look to the heavens but are bound to the earth. 
The
other day I watched a show about bird men, people who bundle up in special
suits with “wings” then jump off cliffs and “fly” down. The most crucial time,
said one of the daredevils, is when you pull the ripcord. Too soon and you miss
the ride. Too late and you die.
To pull the ripcord is to speak the truth — that we
are creatures of earth, not of heaven. It’s to say, with a reluctant dip of the wing, that the ground rules.
Liftoff and Letdown

Liftoff and Letdown

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Yesterday I had the pleasure of going through airport security twice for the same flight. I’d left something in the car. Later in the day, while waiting for a connection in another airport, I walked past an even busier security checkpoint, people rushing to lace up their shoes, stuff toiletries in bags, zip laptops into cases.

That flying is an exhausting, dehumanizing experience is news to no one. But you forget just how exhausting and dehumanizing when most of your trips are by car.

In exchange for the miracle of flight, we have the humiliation of full-body scans, the inconvenience of unpacking what we just packed and stuffing it into gray bins, the thrill of padding barefoot along the airport floor.

A reminder that even though we soar through clouds, our fears and troubles usually keep us earthbound.

Big Sky

Big Sky

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There is the Big Sky of the West, mesas hulking in the distance, red rock, cloudless sky, the tang of  wild sage.

But what I had forgotten is that there is also the Big Sky of the beach, the vast horizon beyond the breakers, the vistas north and south, clouds looming in the late afternoon sky — seeing the weather before it arrives.

Here too is a vast panorama, scenery that takes me out of myself, the curve of the earth implied but not stated.

Sun on Water

Sun on Water

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The sun rises and sets every day, of course, but in my regular life I don’t see it.

It’s an everyday miracle hidden behind hills and houses and daily routines.

But here at the beach I have time to watch the sun as it moves through the sky. Faraway star, morning beacon, evening entertainment — it disappears, finally, behind banks of clouds. But first a light show, late rays on water, glorious, best viewed in silence.

Perigee Moon

Perigee Moon

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I saw the moon rising as I rushed to the store on a last-minute errand. It was almost 9 and still light. I pulled the car to a stop at the corner and snapped this photo, which makes the moon look small and faraway instead of large and in-your-face, which is how it appeared outside the view finder.

This morning I learned from the weather guys that this is a perigee moon (closest to earth in its orbit), and the full perigee (also known as a super moon) appears 14 percent larger and 30 percent brighter than the apogee (farthest away in its orbit) moon.

I’m not a big statistics person but from the look of last night’s show, I’d say that’s about right.  And it was 40 percent more beautiful — at least.

But just to be sure I’ll be gazing skyward tonight and tomorrow, when the full perigee will once again bridge the gap between heaven and earth.

Grass Moon

Grass Moon

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It’s not green, not blue, either. It’s a brilliant white, brighter than any recent winter moon. It’s the Grass Moon, a springtime orb, arriving just as the grass is starting to grow again and the mowers are humming and before we’ve grown tired of that weekly ritual.

 I learned of the Grass Moon by reading my favorite go-to weather site, the Capital Weather Gang. It will be a beautiful full moon tonight, the “Gang” told me, the Grass Moon. So I tiptoed out the front door at 9:30, trying not to rouse the dog, and stared at the moon peeking through the branches of the dogwood tree.

It was doubly framed, this moon, first by the tall oaks and then by the white blossoms of the tree. The moon shed enough light that I could make out each separate flower, could notice the details of branch and bloom, could have probably (if I’d wanted to) knelt down and counted each blade of grass.

It was a moon that brought the rest of spring into focus.

Wikimedia Commons: Fir0002/Flagstaffotos

The Moon Before the Storm

The Moon Before the Storm

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Here we are thinking about the snow we might get on Wednesday, the snow I will most probably write about tomorrow, too. But today it is clear and bright and cold, and the moon, setting, was framed by the trees in our backyard.

A faraway moon this morning. Remote, withholding. Not round and jolly and close by.

A moon that is glad to be going.