After I fell completely in love with full moons rising behind lighthouses, I couldn’t help wondering what a crescent would look like in the same kind of lineup. Is it possible? Could I do it?
There’s something mischievous about a crescent moon, that thin curved grin in the sky that always reminds me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. A little slice of light that looks like it’s up to something. I started calling it my “purple kitty moon,” because once you see it that way, you can’t unsee it. The way he giggled in the sky and came to rest on the branch.
But catching a crescent in the summer is tricky. Warm mornings almost always come with a thick offshore cloud bank, and that little sliver of moon is so faint that it disappears behind the haze like it pulled the blankets back over its head and needed 5 more minutes. You line up your shot, hold your breath, and then—poof—it’s gone. Then hope and pray it comes back. Do I leave, do I stay. Always stay 10 minutes longer than you think you should.
This morning, though, the cloud didn’t ruin anything. It actually made the moment better. The crescent pushed up behind the edge of the cloud like a secret being revealed slowly, glowing just enough to peek through while the lighthouse held steady in the dark. The colors were unreal, all purples and deep blues and warm flashes of red. It felt like the moon and the cloud had worked out a tiny performance together just for that sunrise. When the sun came up, the moon disappeared into the morning going back to bed and so did I.
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After I fell completely in love with full moons rising behind lighthouses, I couldn’t help wondering what a crescent would look like in the same kind of lineup. Is it possible? Could I do it?
There’s something mischievous about a crescent moon, that thin curved grin in the sky that always reminds me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. A little slice of light that looks like it’s up to something. I started calling it my “purple kitty moon,” because once you see it that way, you can’t unsee it. The way he giggled in the sky and came to rest on the branch.
But catching a crescent in the summer is tricky. Warm mornings almost always come with a thick offshore cloud bank, and that little sliver of moon is so faint that it disappears behind the haze like it pulled the blankets back over its head and needed 5 more minutes. You line up your shot, hold your breath, and then—poof—it’s gone. Then hope and pray it comes back. Do I leave, do I stay. Always stay 10 minutes longer than you think you should.
This morning, though, the cloud didn’t ruin anything. It actually made the moment better. The crescent pushed up behind the edge of the cloud like a secret being revealed slowly, glowing just enough to peek through while the lighthouse held steady in the dark. The colors were unreal, all purples and deep blues and warm flashes of red. It felt like the moon and the cloud had worked out a tiny performance together just for that sunrise. When the sun came up, the moon disappeared into the morning going back to bed and so did I.
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