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  • Writer's pictureChristy

Morning Moon

Reluctantly, I peeked out the door,

my face shocked by brisk, frigid air.

How the dogs could linger was a mystery.

And then I saw her.

I wanted to stay and stare as she hovered above the horizon.

My cheeks and nose protested.

The dogs rushed the deck and we retreated inside.

I moved across from my usual Eastern-facing morning seat,

well-worn by hours of writing.

Dawn’s rusty tint was still an hour away.

For now, I craved a connection with her.

The moon.

Her color was that of molten lava,

Or smelted metal ready to be forged. Yet she conveyed no threat.

Rather, the glowing orange hue remained self-contained in a (nearly) perfect orb sinking lower in the sky.

Peacefully, she drifted until she resembled the profile of an egg over-easy. She melted at the horizon like butter dissolving from its natural state.

Finally, she was gone,

Ready to dutifully illuminate the night sky of our neighbors to the west.

-Christy Hughes

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