Early morning show needed no ticket
At 3:40 this morning, I step outside onto the front porch. It’s Earth Day, April 22nd, and there are traces of snow on the grass. The tulips bow their heads, petals heavy with ice. The moon is nearly full, waxing gibbous, and hangs low in the northwest sky, just above the mountains. But still high enough to cast a silver line onto the river’s surface.
A tugboat aglow with amber lights on each of its three decks dares to cross the line the moon has drawn. It glides like a southern belle in a hoop skirt through a swirling mist. Its softened lights reflect on the water’s surface; long spikes as escorts for the journey. Its horn bellows three short bursts.
Above and behind the boat, on the opposite bank comes conjoined train engines, each rectangle a frame of white lights. It travels faster than the boat.
It was at this very moment, this split second in time, all three intersected and aligned together, moon, boat, and train. This spectacle of a light show choreographed by Mother Earth and manmade actors, their dance and timing perfect.
It was magnificent.