Introduction

CMarie Fuhrman

I spent my first full moon in Idaho walking along the North Shore of Payette Lake. My partner, Caleb, promised moonlit walks on the beach— and he delivered. I have a picture from that night. It’s grainy, not very complimentary of the beauty of the evening, nor did it capture the sound of the loon or any of the night birds that serenaded. Still, I look at it often because it captures more than just a memory of an early date with Caleb and the Salmon River Mountains. It reminds me of permanence. Much can change, but the moon remains.

It was the first of many outings in the moonlight. Since that walk eleven years ago, we have cross-country skied Bear Basin in the moonlight, watched an eclipse over Payette Lake, another, with thousands of others, on an August day in Cascade. We have walked a July road from Pilot Peak lookout into a rising blue moon and watched a bear cub wrestle with a rotten stump while moonlight glinted off her cinnamon fur. Only this March did we lie awake in our camper, stare out onto the water of the Snake River, and talk about how the moon brings its own sound and how those sounds are something we share with all of the people who had ever gazed at the glow or crescent. By simply moving through our nights (and sometimes our days), the moon has inspired every culture to create stories, myths, and songs. Through this single muse, we are connected universally and throughout all time.

I don’t have a favorite myth or story about the moon. I have read cautionary tales and tales of the sun giving its light to the moon as a gift of love. I have read stories of infidelity that caused the moon and sun to be opposite one another. I have read about madness, fertility, a moon of cheese, and a rabbit that inhabits it. I have also read the science. I know the pull of the moon and its ability to stabilize the earth’s climate. I’ve read about deep tunnels that may one day be livable and water that comes from somewhere deep beneath the surface. There are hundreds of facts and tons of data, but if there is any single idea that does stay with me, it is that a footprint on the moon can last for millennia. Something about that, about leaving something behind that others may see years and years hence, inspires me. Even haunts. I suppose

that is not surprising, coming from a poet who seeks out these leavings in the writing and poetry of those who have come before. Traces left about the moon rather than on it.

In her brilliant essay, “Writing About the Moon,” poet Mary Ruefle writes, “I am convinced that the first lyric poem was written at night, and that the moon was witness to the event and that the event was witness to the moon.” I believe her. To read widely is to know that there is rarely a time when, in poetry or prose writing, one will not encounter the moon. A quick internet search for poems, or stories about the moon, will give you reading for weeks. Longer. And here, again, I struggle to find one that stands above the rest. Perhaps it is because none of them are quite right. Isn’t the perfect poem or story. And I think that is because even as each of us shares the moon as muse, light, and companion, none of our stories are quite the same.

I think back to the most recent camping trip in Hells Canyon. The evening was spent watching the moon on a reservoir which was once the Snake River. Earlier that afternoon, just as we pulled into camp, we found the body of a coyote in the blackberry vines that have overwhelmed the bank of the reservoir. It was so strange, so surreal. It had not fallen there but was placed. And placed after being shot in the chest—something we discovered as we carefully walked into the vines, picked up the tawny body, and saw the blood drain from the hole the bullet left. In that moment, as I watched the coyote’s blood gather on the ground, I saw her last howl, the “O” her mouth would make, made now in her chest, and the quiet that would be her final offer to the moon. That night, in the light that reflected off the water, we watched ravens gather in the trees above the thicket where we lay the coyote and covered her body. The birds were silent, perched in a circle, moon making black feathers blue. The following day, just as the sun rose, a bevy of quail emerged from the bramble. I like to believe that is the magic of the moon. That it can take the body of one animal unnaturally demised and turn it into two dozen tiny others, each with a howl, a bark, complimentary to its size.

I like to believe that is the magic of the moon for writers and poets. That the moon allows us to place all our beliefs, stories, and yes, prayers and wishes upon it, and through our words, create something new. The sun gets the credit for making the plants grow, but I give it to the moon for the germination of imagination. In the gardens that feed the creativity of the human being, we

need that light to produce. To allow us to make something for the moon to witness. To leave our footprint not in, but of, moondust.

This year, when The Cabin called for writings with the moon as their theme, the writers and poets of this state answered with 376 submissions! Each poem, essay, or story was different from the last. Each offered a unique, sometimes haunting, sometimes hilarious point of view. The writing imagined lovers in moonlight, looked at the future earth from the moon, came in the form of sonnets, in flash, and quoted songs about the moon from Bruno Mars to Debussy. And I enjoyed reading every one of them—just as I am sure you will enjoy the collection we offer you here.

I implore you to take this book on your next moonlight canoe ride. Or walk along the Boise River. Visit Craters of the Moon with the words of these moonstruck Idahoans. Read it under the protected night skies of Stanley. This collection glows on a moonlit mountain top or beneath a lamp. It will glow for years. And these words will leave a trail, steps in the moon dust, that as writers and lovers and poets and prophets—and those who simply love the moon, we will follow for years.

CMARIE FUHRMAN May 2022

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MOON

writers in the attic

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MOON DANCE

Well, it’s a marvelous night for a moondance With the stars up above in your eyes

VAN MORRISON, MOONDANCE

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