long silences moon, moon-of-trembling-limbs. weary eyed moon, crusted ice moon. the moon of quiet deaths, the moon of little promise.

and then… after four months of waiting and wondering, the conversation took a turn.

“so i know where i’m going,” he said, driving home from this weekend’s battle assembly. vesper’s warm weight against my leg twitched in his sleep. …

darkest light moon, numbed fingers moon. frozen mud moon, moon-of-empty-branches. threatening, indifferent moon. moon of a slow death, moon of a weak sun.

after we rolled out of bed, i drew a bath and made coffee. we didn’t say much, but didn’t need to. we spent the night at my unit’s award banquet, dolled up in our dress blues, and were a bit hoarse from the dj’s over exuberance.

in my tiny tub…

and someday… someday when a true love comes your way, you will be neither looking for it nor entirely sure of its nature when it does arrive.

it will come as a theory, a good feeling in your gut, a pleasant twinge when his eyes meet yours and linger a…

this was the first thanksgiving i spent with a significant other.

we woke at dawn to put the turkey in the smoker. i shouldered up against jesse’s side, blinking blearily against the kitchen lights, while he prodded at bacon in the pan. outside, a small herd of deer picked across the frost-crusted embankment.

the entire day was spent watching netflix’s terrible rendition of cowboy bebop, fucking bareback, snacking on artichoke and spinach dip, deep cleaning the floors + bathroom, folding laundry and soaking in the tub with a $5 bottle of bubbly moscato between us after a sumptuous home-made feast.

he called his parents in west virginia and i facetimed with my mom and younger brother. we fucked some more and promptly fell asleep in the glow of the TV.

hail the wolf-bitten moon, the moon of the long nights. the swift dusk moon, the dying ember moon. the moon of the woolen layers and split firewood, the halting of this year’s progress.

at long last, the first frost fell.

the baseboard heaters click to life of their own accord and the cold air sticks to the inside of my canvas work pants. walks around town are done at a brisk pace, and before bed i visualise all the mosquitos and flying pests dying off by the thousands per second.

the bears’ coats have grown thick, and the bucks parade their thorny brows proudly. the sky seems oddly, cleanly blue and i study the edge of it beneath a flame of maple foliage.

a year and a month have passed, and i am ready to return to the fields.

bright foliage moon, fog-off-the-river moon. autumn olive and hen o’ the woods moon. first persimmon moon, flannel bedding moon. loaded rifle and blaze orange moon.

the old robbins house oozed eastlake craftsmanship, from the handcarved bannisters to the floor to ceiling drapes and the ballroom on the third floor (of course).

the caretaker, with his robust russian accent, kindly gave us a tour and carried our bags to the second floor. …

grey&gold

a wolf-headed man in the fields.

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