A Crescent Moon

I. Reflections of a Deer

A crescent moon rose above the river. Its light cascaded down to it, water sizzling with silvery shimmer. The banks buttressed the light, its rippling gourd of liquid. The moon smiled its crescent smile.

A deer peeped from behind the bushes. Lavender-blue light shone in his eyes. He shyly took a drink from the river, noiselessly padding up to the waters, carefully opening his mouth to lap up the liquid light. He absorbed it, the essence of it made his heart joyous.

He looked up at the crescent moon. He then realized where the river light’s taste came from. The source beamed a silvery smile back at him. It was a revelation that sent little angelic tremors down his spine, and angels of silver descended from the starry sky.

The little deer sent its prayers to the crescent moon. He smiled up to the sky, and the moon tilted further, a recumbent tilt that was not unlike a resplendent gentleman leaning back into his easy chair. This dialogue was interrupted by the wind, amber leaves and sapphire butterflies fluttered along the zephyr’s whistle, and once more, cascading light all about, the wind descended down to the deer. His nose picked up the scent of dewy earth and mildew. One more time, the deer looked up. His eyes were full of silvery light. The moon had sneaked aloft, to the sky-zenith, its light now blotting out the stars. The deer reflected: ‘their light was dimmer, but older.’

He slinked away towards the open prairie, gone amidst the field of mustard and daffodils, until the moon, with its omnipresent light even, could not detect his presence in the field of flowers. The mountains in the morning stood taller and taller as the gold sun rose. Timid at first, its light slowly tamed the purple sky and then set it on fire with its light. Flooded it until everything was revealed.

Birds twittered and shot across the now periwinkle river. Water lapped eagerly at the banks. Shining clearer at dawn, it called the deer once again. And the deer came.

II.  The Bird’s cries

When a bird cries, she cries with abandon. Full-throated peals from its shiny rictus send her timeless revolution to the skies. She becomes tame for a while after expressing herself, the rents the sky open anew with her cries, on impulse and with devotion.

‘I see red and orange and green all around me’, she thinks, and wants to fly all around the earth. This is why she was given wings – to make up for her lack of patience. She gobbles up the colors, the sights. These are her food. Her spiritual desires are quenched totally by flight. The bird, as she soars above the rainbows after rain, drinks the colors, drinks the rain from the sky and then cascades down to catch fish in the periwinkle river.

III. River watchers

It was a prelude to effervescence. A luminescent complicity between animal and earth. That love could exist between nature and sunrise? Between heaven and hell? Between time and space and motion? Everything stood still. Even the wary watchers of the river, the hogs, feral cats, grizzly bears, were on break, sitting idle by the little linden trees, playing jacks on a redwood stump. They learned to know when the world was content. And so maximized their time, enjoying their frugal lunch break now that this scarce harmony gushed its timbre.

Echoes of the night rang in the chill of dawn. But all music must eventually cease. The ringing of the last chord of complete and utter intonation pealed over the ringing silence that followed. And then, after the applause, the earth shuddering one last time with ecstasy, the river watchers again grew wary and came back to watch for signs of danger once more.`


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