Here in this first-ring suburban neighborhood, we are far from the spongy paths of the forest peoples who gave this moon its name, but we are not far from the snow moon itself, which rises through the bare trees as it has always done since long before we were here, since long before the forest peoples were here. On Friday, the day of the snow moon, it was seventy degrees outside. The bluebirds were peeking into the sun-drenched nestbox, and the star magnolia was in full bloom long before its time, but still the snow moon rose between the black branches in our postage-stamp yards, as lovely as it has ever been, untouched by all our rancor, unmoved by our despair.
Let the earth cast a shadow across its golden glow. Let the green-headed comet streak past, unclasped, on its journey through the darkness. Still the snow moon rises and sets as it must. It has never burned, and it will never darken: all its light is borrowed light. Its steadfast path is tied to ours. The snow moon brought a time of hunger to the forest peoples, but we are fat in our snug houses, tethered to the shine of our screens. The snow moon is our hungry sister. The snow moon is our brighter twin.