S. Worthen (owlfish) wrote,
S. Worthen


At moonrise, a circle brushed with lurid orange and striped with blued clouds rose through the buildings and trees beyond a parking lot. The moon was alien and lovely.

At totality, the moon was brushed in umber, red-tinged muddy brown. That umber was us, this planet, shining back its glow to its satellite. The moon is our moon, close enough to run through our shadow now and again. It didn't seem alien at all.
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