The moon is full (well, 99.8%, according to the internet).
Last night it shined like a spotlight or the opening at the end of a long, dark tunnel. This morning it’s turned orange like the cartoon moon on my trick-or-treating bag from childhood. I can almost see the silhouette of a witch flying across it.
I think of what they say about hospitals scheduling extra staff for nights like this. I think of what they say about women’s bodies being attuned to it. Sailors being saved by it. All the love songs written about it. The tides’ constant, humble bowing to it. I think of its violent birth and its strong iron core and all the power we attribute to it.
And yet I wonder if the moon, the Earth’s child, simply exists as a mirror for the sun, to remind it of its own radiant light.