silkroadcowboy

It was not his habit to rise so early, but he was up before the sun on this Monday.

November at this latitude was crisp and today was no exception. There was no snow, but a heavy hoarfrost blanketed the field which dropped away to the wood beyond.

Light shone through the bare branches of the larch and birch and filtered through the hemlock and white pine. The sliver of the crescent moon graced its beams on the field, and the hoarfrost shimmered in thanks.

It was still very early. Twilight had not yet blanched the stars.

His father, once a navigator in his youth, had taught him the stars and their significance when he was a boy.

His mother, ever the romantic, the origins of the names of the days of the week. This was Monday, Lundi in her native French. The moon’s day.

How fitting, he thought, to stand here beneath the stars before dawn and watch the moon rise on the moon’s very day. That this moon day was one year to the day since Papa and Mama had passed, together, seemed mystical.

This mystical morning lovingly cradled the cynic he had become in middle age.

It held him close to its bosom, nestled him and whispered that he was still the bright-eyed child of wonder he had once been.