Snow Moon

Photo by Charlie Kingree

That night, the fire leapt to burn the flurries right out of the air. The coals didn’t even hiss. It was the kind of silence that only comes with snowfall, which piled in drifts against the brick walls of the house and the sturdy bases of our longleaf pines, covering the sand so that the backyard glowed under bare moonlight. 

We’d built the fire up to roaring before the first crystals fell. Hours later, we still nursed the insatiable flames, sweating with wool hat and gloves shucked to the side. The pit burned so hot that by morning not a flake would be found inside. Already we’d deposited no less than a large sapling’s worth of logs and kindling into the fire, and our reserves were growing thin.

February’s full moon is called the Snow Moon, and in the days leading up to the storm, I had called the name a good omen. The prophecy had come true: All around our bubble of warmth, the ground was rising inch by inch, and the sky was a white sheet drifting down, threatening to douse the fire. 

When the Snow Moon reached its zenith, we made torches and went kicking through the powder for more wood, which we roasted dry on the stone ring around the flames. Every dead stick within fifty feet of the house was drafted into the effort, every log balanced under the edge of an axe. We collected so much wood that months later, when summer hit and insects swarmed the damp air, we’d still struggle to find any fuel to burn.