Though they said it was full there was no sign of the moon behind the clouds. The dog’s muzzle started to go white, we just noticed. We asked one another if they’d seen the same thing or it just happened. It was like the hair on my chest, the same thing: it went white overnight, all at once. There was a rhododendron bush out front worn down by the weight of the rain, the blooms facedown like a drunk in the lawn, the head broken and spilling out. There was no moon. The sky got a sickly pale but never came to fruition. You knew it was back there but there was no point staying up for it. The moments inside were about the same, how we passed in and out of rooms, rising and falling, passing in and out, seen by some, not by others.

Categories: musings, prose

Tags: aging, full moon, moon poetry, moon prose, prose, William Pearse writer