I do not see the moon as a huntress, or a harsh mistress. She rises in the east and quietly catches the setting sun’s golden glow. She reflects my lot in life: The dull orb that has no light of her own, but rather stands near the shining star and hopes for secondary accolades.

On the way home tonight, I caught her silent lift from land to sky over the tomato field that spans the wide ground between the parks on the ten-mile loop of levee roads. She asked nothing more than a momentary glance; she posed for my camera, feeble though my lens would certainly be. I caught a smile on her right profile, no more than a brief shadow in the orange haze. Truckloads of produce rumbled past the spot where I idled to admire the twilight orb. To the west, the fierce and fading sunset danced its way to China as her calmer cousin cast a pale protective glow across California.

I pulled into my lot as the moon rose over the trees and the night air darkened. With a long last glance, I climbed the four stairs to my doorway and used the last bit of battery from my phone to find the lock. I took the sweet sight of the moon’s kindly gaze with me into the silent space that I call “home”.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

Moonlight

Sara Teasdale, 1884 – 1933

It will not hurt me when I am old,
A running tide where moonlight burned
Will not sting me like silver snakes;
The years will make me sad and cold,
It is the happy heart that breaks.

The heart asks more than life can give,
When that is learned, then all is learned;
The waves break fold on jewelled fold,
But beauty itself is fugitive,
It will not hurt me when I am old.