Although, to be honest, I don't see the moon. I would have to go down on my knees for it. I see the moon's halo. I see the way it eases the late night sky with a faint memory of blue. Not a slightest glimpse of wind anywhere. Only the strange, ceaseless rushing that I imagine sometimes is the sea's dream, even on nights when nothing is moving - not the sea, or the traffic, or the tree leaves.
I call this month quiet moon. Used to be, deep winter was the season of rest. Now of course we rest in summer, at least those of us who buy our food from supermarkets and our house repairs from experts. The sun's warmth no longer invigorates us but mellows our bones, our thoughts, sending us beachward. And increasingly these days we can not even be out safely under that sun, because we've ripped apart the ozone, poisoned the air, created deadly heatwaves and droughts. We act like we're smarter than nature - but we are not wiser.
I don't think any of this in the moonlight, though. I think how I'm standing in magic.