For hours before her arrival the Moon calls to me, because I know she will be waning, attended by Jupiter, and I don't want to miss what may be the end of their days-long dance.
Starlight streams through the window; sleep is restless, broken.
Jupiter dawns first, radiant in the blackness. I take note — soon, now — and slip back into slumber, awakening suddenly to find sky dark, but faintly bluing; Moon, a pale white sliver, cupping her face to Jupiter, and beneath them the graceful silhouette of soft-shouldered summits — distant, but not impossibly far away.
It is the moment I have been waiting for, yet I pause, lulled by warmth and drowse, a voice that cajoles, the Moon will rise again tomorrow, you can go out and see it then...
No, I must get up, and do, the dogs rising from blanket nests without hesitation or complaint, eager always to engage, demanding no notice, no preparation.
Emerging from the electronic murmur of the house, I find the world still, strangely silent. But all around me I feel life, poised to stir, and I know I'm not alone.
Later, flipping through the New York Times, mug of coffee in hand, I am struck, as always, by the glaring juxtaposition of news — war, famine, mayhem, plague — and ads — jeweled watches, fine china, cashmere coats, designer goods — and I ponder the contrasts, the connections, the disparate, joined worlds of newsmakers, news consumers.