Full Moon On A Winter Morning

by Roger Poppen

Its solemn face hangs in a yellowish gray swath between pink horizon below and deep blue vault above. The stars have faded, the sun not yet risen, and this pale, mottled ball floats alone in the frozen sky. Silhouetted below, leafless branches form a bed of black lace.

From my house, the road winds through woodlands, its kinks uncoiling as it turns from country lane into highway. My child sits beside me in sullen adolescence. Whirring tires and rushing wind only add to the silence. I drive past carcasses of creatures, their nocturnal journeys ended by explosions of light and hurtling steel. Ravens, busy at their breakfast, reluctantly flap away at our approach.

The glowing orange rim of the sun pushes above blue hills on my left. I turn right toward the bridge into the city and the sun glares blindingly in my rearview mirror. Ahead, the moon has swollen to a giant disk, thin as tissue paper, disintegrating as it sinks into the river.

I stop in front of the high school. My child gathers backpack, flute, rolled up art project, and wordlessly opens the passenger door. A shout of greeting from other students and suddenly my child is alive. Laughing, hugging, talking excitedly, the group disappears into the school entranceway. Invisible, I circle the driveway and begin the trip back home.

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