So pre-Copernican me is out in the fields, tending my flock on this minus-31-Celsius night (except I’m pre Celsius as well as pre-Copernican, so the best I can say is that it’s freakin’ cold) and I notice that the chariot driver is toting a full moon across the sky tonight.
Bonus, I think. That’ll make it easier to spot any sheep that haven’t frozen to death. (What do sheep do in the winter before barns are invented, I might ask if I had any idea what a barn will be a few centuries from now. I’m shivering but surviving in my sheepskin coat and knitted hat and mitts, of course. But what about those poor, naked sheep?)
Then I see that something, perhaps a wolf, has taken a bite out of that moon.
Sure enough, it begins to bleed, redness spreading across what remains of its acned face.
But by this time I’m huddled around a smoky fire in the ol’ cave, trying to thaw some mutton for a midnight snack.
Think I’m crazy enough to watch a super blood moon eclipse on a freakin’ cold winter night? No way.
I might get et by a wolf. Just like the moon did.