How strange, that I don’t remember seeing it before. Full moon to the west just over the tree line horizon of my yard. Mornings born of winter, summer, autumn and the spring, I’ve been there always, almost every day and yet I don’t remember noticing–how could you not?–an orange yellow ball sewn on the velvet black of still night-colored morning.
It is lovely, glancing off the landscaped snow and so, I blink my shuttered eye to save its image.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology