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Wolf-moon was an offertory wafer, crisp over the street's end, held up to mad millenarians* over dark, Henrician chimneys in a blue tattering of cloudy heraldry and to lovers of our natural orrery, rocked with wonder in their safer Newtonian cradle.
We steadied our cellphone cameras on each other's heads, impulsive snaps looming lights, universalizing Mill Lane - pre-digitals sighed for in sci-fi sleep.
And later, in The Boathouse, while the band played 'Crossroads' with fire backdated, retro fingers divining mad spider rites we danced with that Cambridge bunch of weekly rock devotees eighty-five years young downwards,
levitated shoes in a pogo ankle riverdance until the oxygen ran out.
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*Millenarians - the word comes from the thousand years that the world was held to be lasting for before its end by those loony fundamentalists who have been predicting said end ever since 1000 AD, ha-ha. This 'wolf moon Jan. 11th and 12th and a close pass of Venus on the doorstep of a Friday the 13th is all it takes. Do watch out for black cats wielding mirror shards to ladder yer tights, men!
