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September’s full moon nearly lines up with the point when the moon’s orbit is farthest from Earth-a point known as “apogee,” which the Almanac says is a distance of about 252,100 miles away. “Micro Moon” is a sort of opposite phenomenon to a “ Supermoon,” which makes the Moon appear larger in the night sky because it is orbiting especially close to Earth. The moon will also appear about 14% smaller because of its distance from Earth, which led to the September full moon’s additional nickname: “Micro Moon,” according to the Almanac. Although the moon traditionally rises about 50 minutes later each night leading up to a full moon, in the days leading up to September’s full moon it generally rises just 25 to 30 minutes later across the northern U.S., and only 10 to 20 minutes later for much of Canada and Europe. On average, the Farmers’ Almanac says a Friday the 13th full moon is a 20-year occurrence.Īs you might expect, September’s full moon is called the “ Harvest Moon” because it comes at the peak of harvest season.Īccording to NASA, this moon has historically been especially helpful to farmers who relied on moonlight during harvest season. The next one isn’t expected to happen again for another 30 years-on Aug. It reports that this will be the first full moon visible across the U.S. Welcome to Pleasantville, USA.A full moon on Friday the 13th is an extremely rare occurrence, according to the Farmers’ Almanac. This life to death with beauty dance is the real thing. The thousand little compromises we make every day that eventually add up to the loss of ourselves, that decayed stench of hollowness, disappears. It’s a Paul Bunyan land of ballgames and barbecues here a feast of Walden Pond and Lake Woebegone. But the migrating geese and me agree we put distance between ourselves and funerals. Albert Camus opined that autumn is a second spring. Leaves turn red on their last days full of life and color them beautiful in death as they abandon the twigs that sympathize with their decay. You can feel the baby’s breath of winter. A crisp cool Canadian breeze foretells fortune tales of fall.įlowers fade, fruits flourish and fresh vegetable Bodega glisten with a luster from the sky. They are zombies, stoically awaiting the farmer’s murderous front row cultivators, threshers that mutilate then bury the detritus that once winter ferments will resurrect. Battalions of corn stalks surround them and us and everything for more miles than eyes can see. The pumpkins appear overnight, lined up and stacked in pyramids of orange and white like harmless cannon shells strategically set along highway shoulders for some impending artillery battle.
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The sun begins to fall faster and everything seems to take on the sighing autumnal ember colors of all the sadness there ever was. Summers death rattle beckons the underbrush and she begins to whisper as seductive and dangerous as a woman’s breath in the throes of passion. In the murmuring twilight the gloaming summer is lifting her skirt. Our axis rotating planet is orderly and slowly releasing its summer soul producing more dark each day than light. We are compatible complaints dutifully fulfilling our social contract and coloring safely inside the lines. In anticipation, I wrote a quick little poem. Its been cloudy here the past few nights, so Im hoping the sky will be clear enough to see the harvest moon (my favorite) tonight.
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Theres something spiritual and magical about the moon. I wave, as is the custom here, to the other spacemen travelers inhabiting our lifeline corridor as we whiz past each other with that all too familiar catatonic stare that monotony turns all commuters faces into a kind of crazy, irrational drunkard swoon that seems to us all too rational. When I was a little girl, I loved riding in the backseat of the car watching the moon follow us home. By their grace I live in this dirt and courage wilderness.
#Harvest moon october 2019 free
Pitch dark street light free ribbons of black asphalt snake along narrow paths to home and back separating the wild from the man-made world. A humongous full moon meets myhigh beams and swallows the horizon.
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Surfing ever-deepening grooves carved in this country road by repetitious smoothing from my extremely low-frequency sounding spaceship tires, I zone into my own private symphonic opera. “Autumn is the year’s last, loveliest smile.” ― William Cullen Bryant