Image by onkel_wart (off duty) via Flickr
The changing of guard by celestial sentinels, a sincere, sublime, and stirringly emotional ceremony. If ever there was an abeyance in time, it is this moment, a brief juncture when seconds swell. An epoch when eternity seems possible, infinity has relevance, destiny tickles inevitability. The triviality of life dwindles, leaving an ambiance of unclouded invigoration and gratitude. That brief occasion when existence has consequence, significance, and prospect.
As a gentle breeze stirs virgin leaves of stalwart Oaks and skeletal mesquite. Bullfrogs cavort and frolic noisily along rippling waters edge. Crickets begin their evening telegraph, sounding messages musically alluring. An owl plaintively questions darkened shadows, challenging that which we cannot see. The defiant instance of silence, pure solitude, is violated to disclose an episodic twilight of sentience.
Moon shadows cast against the landscape, toys, tempts, and deceives perception. Tree limbs, bent and misshapen by the crimson glow of a manipulating moon. A chicanery perpetrated by a mischievous sentinel for it’s own perverse amusement. Unnerving imaginings of dilettantish thoughts distort judgment, confuse senses. A spirited night livens the ambiance, forces concentration. Inspiration flourishes, investing concept, reflection, intimation. A prosperous environment for the creatively inclined.
“The moon is a white strange world, great, white, soft-seeming globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across space I shall never fully know. But the moon that pulls the tides, and the moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist. When we describe the moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness.”