Strawberry moonshine.

One would assume the strawberry supermoon is thusly named because of its color.

See the firefly?

In fact, nope. It’s a supermoon because it’s a full moon at perigee and it’s strawberry because June is when strawberries ripen, so the June full moon is always a strawberry moon, color of strawberries or not.

Such accommodating brome grass.

I set out to take photos of fireflies, which I do try to do almost every year and Jeremy reminds me never actually works. I had to try again because I saw this photo. A girl always has to have ideals, and Jim shoots a lot with unexpected equipment (including, famously, an iPhone) which gives me hope that my perfectly serviceable camera will someday help me do more fun things in better quality. So far not, but, again, I can hope. I could maybe help myself by learning to shoot manual, but to date, the time to do so and initiative/interest haven’t collided at the same instant, so envision me accepting that and moving on.

Brome grass is non-native — brought to Nebraska from Hungary. It’s kind of a frustrating grass because it takes over from the native grasses in road ditches and also wants to take up my lawn and garden, and also it’s a cool season grass so once it’s been mown the first few times it just sits around and looks patchy beige.

It’s a perfect moon to coincide with the Pony Express annual re-ride. Riders passed five miles from my house around 1:30 a.m. today. I was asleep. Daytime, I’m all over it even to the point of joining it for celebrations. Dead middle of the night, not so much.

One moon, unadorned.

I often take eleventy bajillion photos but last night took only 24 (failed) photos of fireflies, 23 photos of the moon, and six frames of Venus shining over the granary. The moon is pretty much always worth my time.

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