The Moon and Minnewaska.
This moon is becoming a true sphere out here, frosted against pale blue sky.
Outcroppings with similar hues sit cross-legged below, impatient in coniferous ski hats, barely controlled laughter.
Before, it hung lazy like a sliver, a crescent. I didn’t believe the negative space was anything more than deep-space nothing, dark matters, death.
But I can see that moon, it’s going to be a true sphere. There is no agenda except for tides, sex and truth. We are turning toe to toe, face to face.
The only sound, the water below, slapping rocks, respectfully.
Right, don’t know if I need any other noises or shapes or lives as I gnaw upon a pine needle brunch. The fight to feel fine has been won in this round. Circling the lake while the lazy moon circles me.