Happy Friday, y’all!
Guess what! Substack is making an answer to Twitter. It’s called Notes, and you should definitely head on over there so we can be pals in the new space. (And we should be Twitter buddies, too. @RealJoshUrban on the Blue Bird.)
How to join
Head to substack.com/notes or find the “Notes” tab in the Substack app. As a subscriber to Urban's Legends , you’ll automatically see my notes. Feel free to like, reply, or share them around!
You can also share notes of your own. Groovy, right?
Scorpio Moon
Calories don’t count in the middle of the night. Neither does time. I padded across the dark kitchen. There were Easter candy almonds around somewhere.
What is THAT?
A glow out the window in the sky, over the mountain, shimmering.
The waning half moon shone through the trees, not yet clearing the tops of the mostly-bare branches. A hazy sky caught the glow, and multiplied it, the thin clouds reflecting yellow moonlight. The radio tower blinked its red beacon.
I stepped out onto the patio, drinking in the still of the night. A Whip Poor Will called down by the creek, and a truck rumbled down 501 in the quiet, probably heading towards Carolina.
Antares (“rival of Mars - or anti-Ares) glared red, the alpha star of Scorpius. The constellation seemed to crawl out of the crags and cliffs of Long Mountain high into the southern sky.
Most things in space look static, so vast are the distances and scales. I watched the moon shining through the trees, applying nocturnal patience. This was a chance to watch a planet spin.
And there! Movement! A sliver cleared the trees. I waited. More.
Then, the application of the mind. The moon isn’t rising. The Earth is turning.
Long Mountain sank into the east. Our thousand mile an hour whirling became real.
The theory is enough to make you seasick. (Or…Earthsick.) One ordinary childhood family walk turned nauseous for my poor mother back in the day when the conversation turned to our planet’s rotation. “Oh guys, I’ve gotta sit down.”
(Vivid imaginations run in the family.)
The patio under my feet rushed towards morning, silently, calmly.
The moon cleared the trees on the heights. I turned to go inside.
The Whip Poor Will kept on calling, a late night disc jockey for all the creatures snuffling through the meadows, waking dreamers, and truck drivers rolling south to Carolina.
There! On the wall. My faint shadow in the moonbeams, now streaming over the mountain.
Treasures from Earth
I used to think all classical pieces were “symphonies.” Dig the sparse instrumentation of a piano trio, brother. It’s Beethoven. They don’t have Beethoven on the moon. Lucky us.
Here’s a thing of beauty to ease you into the weekend.
Catch ya on the flip side.
Josh