Snow Moon

I find it interesting that the northeast part of the country got hit with a great whacking blizzard yesterday, just as the second full moon of 2017 was approaching fullness.

This full moon, which most often occurs in February, is called the Snow Moon. Does anyone care to guess why?

I'm rather smugly pleased that this moon will achieve fullness tonight, for as J.B. Books said in The Shootist, "Today is my birthday."

Seems a good omen somehow.

I'm cheating, of course, because the moon won't really become full until shortly after midnight, which will clearly be during the official period of tomorrow, which is February 11.

I got to wondering how many Snow Moons had matured on my birthday down through the long years of my existence. Having a phone at hand it was easy to check, and as it turns out, the answer is exactly one. February 10, 1971.

That seems an astonishingly small number.

On the other hand, the second full moon of the year has about 56 days to choose from. And it's all down to orbital mechanics anyway. I doubt the moon has ever considered the human time marking scheme when making its decision.

While other locations groaned under the weight of wind and snow, Yesterday was simply gorgeous in this part of the world.

But, as J.B. Books also said in The Shootist, "It's what we call a false spring."

Seventy degrees and sunshine is simply not going to melt three and a half toms of ice in a few hours.

And what it melts will in large part refreeze once the sun sets and normal February nighttime temperatures return. Mind you, it's headed in the right direction, and as the cows are drinking and new "warm" water is flowing in, this giant ice cube is fighting a losing battle.

At the end of the day, it matters not a whit. It's February, and February is winter. But winter is half gone now, the sun is rising ever higher in the sky and the days are getting longer. Spring will come, and the prairie will once again awaken from her long, cold slumber. And even deep in the clutches of winter, the cycle of life goes on.

This ratty-looking hawk is the culprit.

I have a feeling he's getting sick to death of Jackrabbit. He could barely get airborne.

But he did.