The full moon in February is known as the Full Snow Moon, having the reputation of drawing down the deepest snowfall. Snow is scant, this year, here: blown far northwards. Friday brings another storm. It shakes until we fear it: so much pitch and toss we are not sure if we are on land anymore. Trees bend like seaweed. Limbs are broken. The sky is a surge of cloud: almost mythical. Car tyres catch on splintered wood, in the suck of flood puddles.
It will be okay, I soothe; there's a bottle of wine waiting, a wedge of cheese. Glasses clean in the cupboard and the fire lit. It will be okay; the gears go down, the revs go up, the car pulls through, leaves a proud wake; there is red wine, a rich slice of Bowland cheese.
The house lights are shining, multiplied in the slants of rain as the car reverses and is tucked alongside the stone shed, at an angle where the roof tiles won't slip through the windscreen. Hopefully. The glance up is squinted: automatic: stymied. Clouds flare, they cloud: reveal: a Full Storm Moon.
And what is commonplace can also galvanize.
And what can jolt can also amaze.