The moon outside is crystal clear. At least as clear as it can be shooting its way through the clouds and fighting for attention with all the white and yellow streetlights and flashing coloured signs. Honestly the red Prospectors sign is brighter than the moon, and the big white streetlight in the parklot seems to hide the moon completely. But the moon is there, humbly enough, making the black night glow with a kind of silver light. You can’t see it much for all city light, but I know it’s there. I like the moon. The way it is the only companion on late night drives through the Rockies. The way it sends light to land softly on my shoulders when the cold night air is wiping away the last tears of goodbye.
I like the moon. But it carries with it a certain fear too. The kind of unknown that lurks in the dark when you are parked on the side of some lonely road in the mountains trying to take a nap after driving for sixteen hours. It hides things, and creates shapes and shadows of the dark. The moon reflects light but it makes does so in my dark. It won’t make things seen, it just morphs trees into the goblins and clouds into the castles. It changes cool wind to whispering and the road into a river of glass. The moon is no revealer of reality, it is a maker of fantasy. A giver of nightmares and dreams both in equal proportion.
Sometimes I swear my life is guided by a moon. Fantasy caricatures arise and dreams are born, but I do know know where I am going. I cannot see what comes ahead, I can only read between the shadows and hope the reflections off the road are not the trickery of some laughing moon.