encounter with the moon

Afloat on the rolling green hills of Prospect Park one morning, we find the moon caught in the branches of a dying tree. (The reds of which cut deeply into the ridiculous brilliant sky above.)

“Still up?” I ask.

The moon says nothing. Its wide translucent face is so sad I have to look away. My dog looks away too. We are embarrassed for the moon. But we don’t leave the tree.

The tree is dying because it is late October. I know it is not really dying; only its leaves are dying, this particular year’s shade. So it is more that the protection this particular tree offered to us in the summer is dying. In this way, the fall takes the summer’s clothes off, slowly, as it fades.

What dies? I cannot think of anything but the moon now, stuck in the senescence of this beautiful tree.

I look up to find out how it’s doing…but it’s already gone, dropped from the branches like a reddening leaf, and rolling on toward some other date with the living.

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photo © rubberball/jupiterimages