A full Wolf Moon exudes its pull for longer than one night, bleeding into the week that follows and extending its spell and power. I captured these shots as it was on the rise behind a gnarled pine tree in a January sky. Winter moons are somehow more magical than many other moons, their light often magnified and reflected in the snow and ice that provides some solace at this darkened time of the year.
As the Wolf Moon rose, I stepped into its light, and though the air was cold, I didn’t shiver. On this night, I remember that much of our worry and stress is merely the mental machinations of our minds working overtime. It isn’t necessary, it isn’t even real, it’s simply the power of negative possibilities taking up space in our heads – and that’s always been a choice, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Breathing in the fresh air – so magnificent after a day stuck inside – I understand that all the silliness that we humans create to distract and amuse, to make money and make noise – it’s all so foolish, and has absolutely no bearing on a night like this. The moon will glow no matter who the President is, the sky will thrill no matter what jobs we have, the stars will shine no matter who is left in our lives, and we can soak in that beauty, piss on it, or ignore it. I choose to soak it in, hold it in my heart, and hang onto a little bit of hope. Even in the desolation of this winter, a spring awaits.
Wolf Moon by Mary Oliver
Now is the season
of hungry mice,
cold rabbits,
lean owls
hunkering with their lamp-eyes
in the leafless lanes
in the needled dark;
now is the season
when the kittle fox
comes to town
in the blue valley
of early morning;
now is the season
of iron rivers,
bloody crossings,
flaring winds,
birds frozen
in their tents of weeds,
their music spent
and blown like smoke
to the stone of the sky;
now is the season
of the hunter Death;
with his belt of knives,
his black snowshoes,
he means to cleanse
the earth of fat;
his grey shadows
are out and running – under
the moon, the pines,
down snow-filled trails they carry
the red whips of their music,
their footfalls quick as hammers,
from cabin to cabin,
from bed to bed,
from dreamer to dreamer.
