The waning crescent moon hangs low in the morning sky
as if balancing just above the frosty treetops.
Its delicate light illuminates the landscape
in all its glorious detail. Each blade of grass, each tussock,
hinting at things yet to come.
All this possibility is burnt away by the light of the rising sun.
Part of me stirs under the light of this moon
As if sensing what we may yet become
Dreaming of possibilities.
