On January 4th, I looked up and found the full Wolf Moon wearing a wide, luminous ring, a quiet halo suspended in deep blue, and I photographed it without knowing that a shooting star would later reveal itself crossing the moon’s face, as if the star had signed the moment.
Traditionally, the Wolf Moon is named for the time of year when cold sharpens the land and life listens more closely—when howls once carried farther through winter air—and it felt true to that origin, not dramatic but attentive, offering clarity rather than spectacle.
An hour later I returned outside and the halo had dissolved, leaving the moon alone with slow-moving clouds that gathered and loosened around it. I found myself wondering what it is like to be the moon, to remain whole while everything else shifts, to be present night after night as the world changes beneath your gaze.