The crescent moon rises in the early night sky, a scythe among the clouds, sharp against the fading blue and the sun’s dying light.
Cooking by the light of the full moon, the shadows in the corners illuminated, tugging at my mind. I bend low, hunting for a knife to chop the onion, slice the beef. The red of flesh against the silver blade, sparkling like rubies spilled on white sand.
Gazing up at the yellow sphere, its heavenly perch the stuff of legends and fear in serried forests and endless seas, I feel wonder wash over me. How many eyes like mine have peered at that glowing ball in the sky, searching for the key, the way to unlock the unknown, the unfathomable?
Sighing, I set the knife down and scoop the meat and onions into the smoking olive oil in the skillet. First, eat. yes.
© 2013 C. Bertelsen. No photos can be used without my permission.