Here is a little story inspired by blog reader Colleen who was fascinated by a recent comment about some of our inky black nights in the woods. You can’t see your familiar hands, your feet, your journey to the mailbox.
(Now that the moon stretches into her fat belly every night it’s like soft lamplight amplified by the gleaming of stars. Except when it’s snowing, and the firmaments hide themselves behind clouds pregnant with heavy white maternity robes.)
When the pregnant moon births our way through the darkness
