The harvest moon, named for providing enough light for farmers to bring in their crops by night, casts shadows and highlights the contrast between the ephemeral fall brightness of the birch trees and the stubborn evergreen of the spruce. 100 miles up, the aurora forms loops of pink and green before the stars, infinitely higher still, where the ladle of the big dipper tips back precariously, threatening to spill all of a billion years over the landscape, until the silence is broken by the hooting of a nearby owl, pulling me back down to now.
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