It's a warm Georgia night. I stride slowly along a neighborhood road, the grass still wet from an earlier rain. The houses I pass are all darkened; none acknowledge my coming or going. A waning gibbous moon beams softly down from its heavenly track: I lift my gaze to meet it. I learned in school that there is no air on the moon, nothing to hold dearly the warmth of the sun. It follows its predetermined path, slowly revolving, never resting, its closest company a hundred thousand miles away. A cool wind rustles the pine trees; and as I gaze up through them, I understand what it's like to be alone.
05-Jul-2015 06:03:42