A full moon of Spring

Night before last, an almost full moon, surrounded by a glowing halo, played peek-a-boo behind a thin layer of clouds. Last night [this morning], it shone in a clear sky. Tonight it will be full. Cloud cover remains to be seen, or not. Our copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide Calenday notes that the Ojibwe call this full moon Maple Sap Boiling Moon and to the Dakota, it’s Fattening Moon. (Other sources list the Fattening Moon in June.) Regardless of the name, moonrise tonight occurs a little after 8 pm and moonset about 6 am tomorrow.

two sandhill cranes in our back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

As days lengthen and temperatures warm, migrations from southern locales continue and locals become more active. Yesterday evening on the way to and from a visit with the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter, the Better Half and I saw swans, geese, pheasants, deer, turkeys, multiple species of song birds, and sandhill cranes. The trip reminded me of Aldo Leopold’s wonderful observation:

“There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. These essays are the delights and dilemmas of one who cannot.” - A Sand County Almanac foreword

Another sign of warmer days arriving is the increasing number of locations where road work of one kind or another is getting underway. Those who claim there are only two seasons in Minnesota, winter and road work, aren’t entirely joking. I wish work crews would put signs face down when not relevant, instead of just moving them to the shoulder.

Uncharacteristically, I’m going to take in stride the fact that my plans for the week have been disrupted by wet weather and slow to germinate bergamot seeds (which are showing increasing signs of life, thank you for asking). If I can’t play outside, I’ll read inside about the outside, and bake bread. Tomorrow’s project: a whole wheat sourdough rustic boule, The dough is currently undergoing bulk fermentation in preparation for oven time tomorrow.

My Debt

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

Like all
who believe in the senses,
I was an accountant,
copyist,
statistician.

Not registrar,
witness.

Permitted to touch
the leaf of a thistle,
the trembling
work of a spider.

To ponder the Hubble’s recordings.

It did not matter
if I believed in
the party of particle or of wave,
as I carried no weapon.

It did not matter if I believed.

I weighed ashes,
actions, 
cities that glittered like rubies,
on the scales I was given,
calibrated
in units of fear and amazement.

I wrote the word it, the word is.

I entered the debt that is owed to the real.

Forgive,
spine-covered leaf, soft-bodied spider,
octopus lifting
one curious tentacle back toward the hand of the diver
that in such black ink
I set down your flammable colors.

—2018

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