I step out onto the back deck, dreaming of stars but expecting the full moon to drown the all out. Yet they appear one by one, like pin pricks or secrets across the night sky, a blanket spread across my field of vision. In the east, a murky, blood red orb hangs low above the mountain ridge: a full moon eclipsed by our own shadow. I sit for an hour watching its orange haze, wondering at what this means, another quiet message from a moon when I’ve been pleading for stars, there is a purpose there.
No stars fall from the sky while the opportunity exists.
The air is heavy with lilac and bird cherry, the spring stream rushing out any noise but the cicadas and a lone coyote in the distance. After an hour, the slightest sliver of light beams back from the east and drowns out the haze around it. Stars become clearer, gravitating toward the light, the velvet might deep again and the cloud cover of the next valley bouncing back its urban brightness. I stare at the new moon, mesmerized, bare feet cold in the desert chill.
You never gave up looking.
Maybe it’s just time to turn your eyes toward something new.
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