The waxing soft and gibbous moon smudged the sky and
our upturned faces.
She said: “Do I see myself in that frozen pond again,
and again like skipping stones?”
The waxing gibbous moon last night, seen on saunter. (photo by Lance Brisbois.)
As we stood by the pond, after fairly floating down and across that cold savanna and through the woods, the night felt immeasurably great. We then climbed a steep knoll and lay down on the grass.
The thin clouds stretched a milky film with here and there a faint star. The yellow and buff terrain rolled under and away, now and again punched through with oak and shadow.
Tomorrow night the sky will be clear and the moon nearly full, but nowhere nearly as bright as when we walked hushed and crunchy across the prairie woods, then took our repose to consult the moon.