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For the Moon The summer night is filled with uncharted ocean, cawing crows and the aroma of coffee. Nothing seems to faze the empty contents of swarming tourists; exhaust fumes swirl in the night. The air is heavy with music that drifts from bar to bar like a sailor on a weekend pass. The people travel like zombies, back and forth smelling of sour sunscreen and lotion. They move in unison - up and down the pavement from sun up to sundown and into wee hours. Not one stops to listen to the wail of the earth. Under the street lights their smiles appear closer than you think, though they remain distant, miniscule and oblivious to everything around them. But you… you stop for the moon, listen to widow waves and watch the stars like lilies that bloom only in the dark. You, whose only link with their world is a faint memory of femininity; a Cinderella face behind a sheet of store front glass, You, who lives to exist and refuses to live in dreams of nothing but the treasure of wilderness, You - who dreams from the chrysalis; to follow the moon and listen each sun rise for the crow of the rooster. Deborah Russell, © 2006 http://authorsden.com/deborahrussell