Word Count: 240
I stand outside the back door and look around the yard. The trees are black against the cool blue-gray morning sky. Bushes are mere shadows that slip into the distance. The fat yellow moon is on my left, peeking through the fir trees as it slides down the horizon. On the right, peach and apricot hints of where the sun pushes its way up.
Every day it is the same. Only wind can paint the image with a brush that’s full of rain or snow or cotton-ball clouds that splotch the paling blue canvas of the morning. It takes an event of weather, season, time.
I live according to the time the day allows us. Jealous of the night watchmen, the 24-hour deli, dependent on the dark instead of sunlight. The morning’s lifted off the cover of the birdcage. The day begins.
Decades full of days that form the months of a repeating moon. On the left, the moon. The sun struggling every day up on the right.
Until one day I open up the front door–never used in this safe neighborhood where kitchen doors are friendly and the front door has been painted shut some years ago but no one really knows until years later.
Discovery fires synapses with its concept. This morning as I see the day, it’s a revelation. For the moon is hanging on my right and on my left, the sun.
