The full moon of November, in various types of lore, is known as the Snow Moon and the Dark Moon. We are not yet at the full moon, but just now, leaning out the back door as the dogs patrolled the perimeter of the yard, I saw my breath hanging in the chilly night air, and I looked up and saw the brittle crescent of the moon balancing on the tree tops, and just for a second, I could taste the snow and the darkness.
It is not likely to snow here in Texas any time soon, of course, and yet, high above the trees, the crystalline cold exists, passing us by en route to a place where it will sit and rest, causing people to swap cotton t-shirts for flannel lounging pants, and making cozy firelit evenings a regular occurrence.
Almost, it is cold enough here for a fire, and indeed I can smell pine smoke in the neighborhood, but the weekend will bring temperatures approaching the eighties once more – probably for the last time this year.
I don’t mind the days that creep up on 80, linger there for a moment, and then slide back down to cooler temperatures, but I’m ready for something a little bit cooler, a little bit darker, a little bit more on the winter side of autumn than the summer side.
I won’t get the snow. But I’m ready for the Snow Moon.
We won’t get bitter black nights. But we are ready for the Dark Moon.
“Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils” — Cyril Connolly