One of the things I just can’t get used to out here: the crazy shimmering white bright moon. It’s unearthily bright, unhealthily bright, in a way you never see in the suburbs. Each time it gets close to full, I’m clamoring outside, disbelieving it all over again. Clear blue in the mist over the fields; a cold silver knife in the tattered sailing clouds; a moon I could see a hundred times and be no closer to believing it than before.

And who to tell? No one here trades in metaphor; something I very much respect, even as I write my secrets down.