Moon bathes the coming world of night beneath a silver tap. Dark forests are literate and receptive to meaning revealed amidst branches. Mountains bow like earthen masters who still cannot reach the sky. Winds bring lonely howls a thousand miles deep and entombed in a snow that will outlast this single winter. We are because we are; sadness built to be spilled across tabletops that hold perched elbows and sets of wanting eyes. Shadows as capable actors. Antics of this sort require a light source. I salute the moon and her ability to create two from one.
