Not the Moon

We hike up to Blueberry Hill while the sky behind us glows to orange, long sunset of January gilding our city. Dry snow squeaks under boots until we stop, hear what makes our dog stand still as stone: ravens winging to roost, carving cold air into lullaby. Hush, hush, hush, they sing, dark sickles overhead. Orange deepens to red and melts skyline behind us as we round the corner to face jagged peaks from which we think the moon will rise. We sit on snow with backs to rock. Blue sky, purple sky, deep sky. Blue snow, purple snow, deep snow. Ravens call from we know not where, then a third strokes sky overhead and is joined by the two calling, all three heading upvalley single file. Last light glances a curve of white mountain against powder-blue dusk when my husband says, There. Over a smooth lip in craggy ridge, sliver of silver grows quick as sunrise at the equator and not moonrise near the pole. I sit stock still, snow cold seeping, and try to feel how it is not the moon lifting up into view but us, this Earth, that is slowly spinning. For a moment, for a halfmoment, I do sense that I am turning, enough to grow dizzy and touch fear, brief as cloud wisp, of falling off, away, into stars. It’s too much, the rolling of our home orb, only invisible gravity holding us, so we call this moonrise, give moon all credit for this brilliance slipping up, over the ridge, oval stretching to circle of light. We say the moon is full though it is always full. We say the sun sinks, and slides, scraping the horizon red. We say ravens winging to roost do not have thought or language like ours, so though it appeared that two called the third, we second-guess it, spinning ourselves again. We say whatever works to keep the ground beneath our feet solid, this boulder pressing my shoulder blades unmoving, even as we twirl like snowflakes, like motes of moonshine, giddy in the light.