A shiver pulses through the ground, and the mighty oaks that line this clearing quake in response, shrugging a sudden chill that took an evening to arrive. The breeze passes through crossed legs and arms, flaying my loose collar as it makes its way downhill to a coast.
Looking back, I find the moon reduced to an impression in the sky, a white defect that’s no longer stark in contrast to the star-studded bed it lies in. It sinks beneath snow-tipped peaks, dragging cohorts of clouds down with it, and within myself I feel a regurgitation rising.
As my intestines hurl into knots around my heart, I could not allow myself this view anymore, and turn back to the coast. In front of my eyes, a ritual takes place: the sky diffuses into a purplish shade as the sea births an expectant dawn. I watch as the horizon where the sea marries the sky condenses into all the hues of their union, and, in ceremonial fashion, finally drapes itself in a gold sheen as the sun emerges from beneath.
The glorious ceremony has just reached its end, yet I still feel a world stuck in my throat. I am starting to forget the shape of the moon in the middle of the night, and remember only the pain of its eventual withdrawal. What use is there in it rising again, if its glare will surely pass me by? Who am I to wish for the night, when I can not remember?
