THE MOON, A GOLDEN BULGE

At river, on deck, nearly 6:00 p.m. Light leaking from the east; the only brightness shines above the tree line on the west. A wind comes, warning of a weather change, maybe rain tomorrow on these white banks with brown weeds; river so low we begin to wonder just how low it may get. Yet the pink samara--winged seed pods--I noticed earlier today have pinkened the branches of the maple trees with yet another reminder: spring's rains that, after hurricane season, are the likeliest time of year for flooding. Still, only moments ago I tamped the last of my forced grape hyacinth bulbs into the ground between the yellow pansies on the house’s south side. I do this with bare fingers because there is, I swear, something restorative about digging in the dirt, something that means more to me than the condition of my nails, a sense of connection totally foreign to any concern with manicures.

With dirty hands I sit on the deck watching my world turn silver. The woods are already dark, insects chirr, only the white strip of river beach and the sky above the trees on the west hold any light at all. And this white page in my notebook; I can still see its lines.

I twist around, look east, see the moon, a golden bulge beyond the halfway mark, its unfinished edge toward the east. The chirring grows; the volume’s up. Through the dark spiking fronds of the palmetto at my side I see water lit by the moon. Dark, unmoving, this silvered spot mirrors the thin black arms of moss-filled trees on the opposite bank.

It takes so little to feed me. Only the light and sound of the world, this still perceptible bit of wildness. Tonight's first star appears through the branches of the water oak overhead. The oak’s branches and those of the pine and black gum wobble against a gray sky with fast-moving clouds. I want to live forever.