Even through it’s snowing to beat hell, you welcome the theatrics of a Full Snow moon, penumbral eclipse and Comet 45P/Honda-Mrkos-Pajdušáková. Like spilled salt, walking under a ladder, opening an umbrella indoors, comets were once thought a bad omen. In fact, Pliny the Elder linked the snowy dirtballs to political unrest and death, catastrophes, attacks by heavenly beings against terrestrial inhabitants (like the canon of an old white GOP?), general harbingers of doom, of world-altering change No surprise that you return to the dystopian songs of Margaret Atwood. Hers, the pending visit of a green comet, its icy body weaving star dust in its coma and tail, eccentric elliptical orbits, spherical cloud coverage, an apparition visible to the naked eye, its form pointing away from the Sun. Sometimes faint and unspectacular; tonight, masked by cloud and flurry. ✱✱✱
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