It is a night for poets and sled dogs. Jiggs (you will recall him from several chapters back: the dog doing his Camille impression, who is now livelier than ever) insisted on going for a second walk. So, off we went into the 29 degree weather.
For we western Oregonians, this is cold. But I soon forgot all about the chill in the air. I looked up. The sky was not only cloudless, it looked like a black dome studded with lights. And lights of varying colors. Blue stars. White stars. Red stars. I do not recall a night when I could see the different colors in the stars. No wonder the Greeks thought the heavens were made of crystal spheres.
But all of that was the supporting chorus. Onto this stage stepped Luna in full glory, lighting up everything in a ghostly imitation of day. Today Michael Dickson wrote in his blog:
Tonight a giant moon will light this expansive patio, and visitors will see what their ancestors saw a hundred or more years ago.
As I stood looking into the creek reflecting the moon's light, I thought about the numerous generations of new and old Americans who stood on that very bank and looked at the magic of the moon on the water -- the same moon that tonight shines on a patio in Pátzcuaro evoking memories of generations gone by and many more to come.
