Good Moon

I’m out of the house at 5:30 AM. I need to start work early this morning. Busy week. Busy month. But so what. Deadlines are deadlines, work is work, and today I’ve got two days of stuff to do and one day to do it.

It’s zero degrees. But I’m not going to complain. I’ve got a reliable furnace and slept in a bed that has a heated mattress pad. I’ve got a friend in Madison, Wisconsin, where right now it is thirty degrees below zero. He’s allowed to complain. 

It’s the kind of cold that won’t allow clouds. They’ve either been blown away or freeze-dried and fallen to the ground. The sky is so incredibly black I feel like I’m seeing farther into the cosmos than I’ve ever seen before.

I love a sky like this. Thousands of stars, shining bright and steady, the twinkle turned off—brilliant pin-pricks of light punched into the inky blackness of space. 

I brace myself against the deep freeze for a few more moments. I am awake and alone in a neighborhood that is still asleep. I scan the heavens one last time, and then I see it.

A brilliant crescent moon is dangling above the southeastern horizon, and this morning it has two shining companions—too big and bright to be stars. They are planets. One is to the left of the Moon, a bit closer to the horizon, and is the brightest point of light in the sky except for the Moon itself. That’s Venus. To the Moon’s right, up a little higher, traveling along the same trajectory, is planet number two. It is slightly dimmer than Venus, and I’m going to say it is Jupiter. (Dad would know for sure, but I’m confident in my guess.)

I wonder why this formation in the sky looks so unusual to me, and I conclude that it is the time of day, and the time of year. Usually I notice the Moon and Venus do their little dance at dusk. I think of those two as summer companions—showing off for all the world to see at eight-thirty on a warm June evening—but here they are, cavorting along the edge of the night, joined by another friend. The three of them look like they’re racing up a hill. Venus chasing the Moon; the Moon chasing Jupiter; sprinting upward into the crackling, clear black sky.

I want to take a picture of it, but it’s too damn cold. Besides, photos don’t capture it. At least not the ones taken on your stupid phone with your shivering hands. I figure I’ll keep this in my brain in some other way. (Later, I’ll sketch it in my notebook. That’ll do just fine.)

I want to blow off work for half-an-hour, put on another two layers of clothing, and watch the show. But that’s not happening. That stupid corporate sales meeting opening video is not going to edit itself. 

I climb in my car, pull out of the driveway, and stop in the middle of the empty street. I need to see it one last time. The power window motor is sluggish in the zero-degree morning, but it does its job, and I steal one last look without the layer of dirt and salt that covers my driver’s side window.

It’s beautiful, this dance in the sky—but the moment is done. It’s time to put my head down and get to work. 

Then, one minute into my drive, there they are, straight ahead of me. How about that? I guess they weren’t done with me after all. It turns out that the four of us—me, the Moon, Venus, and Jupiter (I think)—have all come out at the perfect time. 

Where ever I turn the car, whatever new street I drive down, there they are … at the end of the road … companions hovering above the horizon … telling me my day isn’t going to be as horrible as I imagine.

(I just looked it up. It was Jupiter. Excellent.)