January 23rd, 2005


The Lighted Hours

Clear winter nights, when the moon is near full, and it rises and sets at the northernmost extent of its annual course, I like to watch the shadows fall at those summery angles they assume. A clear, bright January night is like the ghost of a bright June day, and I easily sense the odd resonance of the year's turns, the way time echoes itself in its passing. So, I like the way a wisp of cloud tonight, revealed by the setting moon, suggested in its pale blue cast the daylight sky, and the way the wind, rising unexpectedly, reminded me of the sound of the ocean washing miles of sand, and the way the night birds' calls have put me in mind of games we played in vanished years, now as shadowy as the pine shapes creeping up my wall. Everywhere I have been is forever returning, gathering layers like nacred sand secreted in a shell's dark, slowly growing toward a moment of luminous emergence.

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I'm enjoying the mild weather. Sluggo is hating it. He takes his anger out on me. I'm going to go out and watch the moon, and let the Slug sulk in the dark.