Waiting outside for a friend, I looked up and saw: the Moon. Clouds were shifting and boiling across the indigo sky, changing from silver to slate to pearl to black, in the pale light of the white orb. Through the winter branches of the stripped trees, her face shone steadily. I did not see her ancient stars, or think about her waning and waxing. Tonight the Moon was full. She hung in the sky illuminating the restless clouds with a steady and silent shine.
I stared Moonward, and the Moon stared back. What does my small scarred face look like through the black branches? What clouds boil around my eyes? The Moon stared as though none of it mattered.
I was the one who turned away first, to gaze at the trees standing like patient giants and the bright streetlamps that blazed like cold stars.
Tonight, I understood how one might worship the Moon.