I am watching a liquid gold moon slide over the edge of the world to the west. Black tree skeletons try to grasp it and hold the night in place a little longer--but ancient as they are, they haven't the secret to stopping time.
The sun is climbing the eastern mountains, weaving pale pink and yellow ribbons through the clouds. I cling to the moments between night and day, silence and sound. In a few minutes the moon will vanish and the sun will arrive at my doorstep with the day's list of busy in its hand. Garbage trucks will spring to life, crashing and flatulating along the street, horns will blare, dogs bark and it will be time to face the day--the seduction of the silent moon a whisp of memory blown to the back of my mind by the early morning breeze.