The Silhouette Thinks The Shadow Knows

Didn’t we love living under the moon.
That beautiful light.
Mesmerized into carving a place for ourselves
In the world as we created it
Organisms in bud and blood
Shaping our presence and each other.
Our momentum was lustful and innate.
The sight of the terrain in that silvery luminescence.
We flowered into the distance
Until we had to make voices to find each other.
Cricket calls and wolf howls.
The air was a living thing.
We were living things and nothing less.
What makes this light that we grow in now?
It steals us from ourselves
And leaves us ignorant of the moon
and her benevolent glow.

Who needs Halloween for a good scare? I’m longing for the lighthearted comfort of Halloweens past when a good monster could outpace the news. But here we are instead, poised in a sharp turn of the unknown and drumming our fingers with white knuckles on what could soon be empty tables. Perhaps the anxiety got me wondering what the earth must have looked like when nobody was around to see it but the moon; what that light must have looked like. Some strange corner of my brain rewarded me with an image that I wanted dearly to hold on to. It was a view of a beautiful moonlit terrain. It felt primal, innocent, and hopeful. I have the inclination to relate this experience to these images. Maybe as a flip side, reset, or because the stories are yet to be defined as we go about our business as blurs of movement and shadows of what the light thinks of us.