This morning, there was no cloud cover, so the waxing moon stood low in the sky, burning brightly in the shape of a fluorescent egg. It was a beautiful sight to behold. Accompanying it, after the din of traffic had passed, was the unmistakable squirb, squirb, squirb of a cardinal off in the distance.
As the bus wound through town, the moon seemed to chase us for a time, almost as if it was running directly alongside. Then, as the pinks and purples of the morning light skittered across the horizon, the moon, dropping ever lower, disappearing behind buildings, took her leave of us.
Then, suddenly, there she is again. She’s lower still, and her powerful brightness has begun to fade, ever so slowly, as the morning creeps in.
While I am truly a night person, I think this has to be my favorite time of day. That space of time where the moon is just beginning to relinquish control of the sky to the coming day. There is something special and sacred about this changing of the guard, something that I have always been drawn to. It's a time I think of as moonset.
I think all of us have probably seen a sunrise and likely, some very beautiful ones. But if you’ve never witnessed the workings of the late winter sky in the hour or so that precedes daybreak, you’ve missed out on something no less than spectacular.
And the moon? She hangs there still.
Even as the sun begins to rise, blazing up a leg of the Gateway Arch, she holds firm.
Turning translucent and shimmery, she vigilantly stands by, her backdrop brightening around her, slowly taking hold.
Good night, moon. Your shift has ended.And a new day begins ...