From my home, the low western sky is behind the mighty Black Mountains. To see the sunset, I must travel past the body of that great dragon. To see the Evening Star and the palm of the Crescent Moon, I must move to the road that peoples this valley. Rarely do I see these western sights unless I am on the move.
Tonight we are travelling. The waxing crescent is large and low, a moon jewel, luminous and fleeting. The smile of light curves graciously upward while the dark of the moon fills its palm, subtle yet distinct. I would like to curl myself up in the shadows and be with the Moon till we turn away from her, till the knife of far-off ridges cuts her from my adoration.
But we are on the highway. We are moving on. There are headlights and drivers irritated that we move too slow. The highway curves away, and the Moon slides from the fingers of my eyes, like rare silk, falling crumpled to the floor. I would have liked to dress my heart in that rare light. I would have liked to mirror the Moon.