This morning a quarter moon shone into the window when the alarm clock went off. Next to the moon was a star that stayed visible in the sky until quarter to 8.
The morning moon is one of the best parts of Oregon Winters. Often the cool temperature will clear the sky and everything shines crisply. In the early morning the stars fade, becoming dimmer and dimmer before the sun rises. The sky turns from cobalt to turquoise, and the stars seem to step back behind a skrim. Only the half-moon gives away where the bright star goes.
The cold air lines the tops of fences, leaves and cars with frost. As I hurry to the bus, I wish I had time to stop and photograph red holly berries and ornimental grasses. I imagine that the south side of our wooden fence will steam a little later in the morning.
By the time the sun rises, I'm at work, nine stories up in the air. In the distance, fog rising off of the Willamette River catches oblique ruddy sunlight.
Ug. Re-reading the above paragraphs, I am reminded of smarmy John Cooney, a radio personality who does dead-pan nature shows on KLCC. I need action and adventure...
In the sterile dark sky, the crescent moon shone like a bone. The distant stars withdrew in the glare of the morning sun, which painted the ambigous grey fog blood red.
Would I catch the bus, I asked myself, and hurried by the barbed plants with their casting twiggy branches; frozen fingers reaching out to snag the unwary.
Would the elevator work? Would I reach the ninth floor? And would my vision there be clear, or misted over by concealing fog?
Ah. Much better. All I need is a preditor / prey scene.