Under the Moon On a Sand Dune

Wake up and go to bed and look to the next day and the next until before you know it, 4 months have past and it's almost winter and grand plans have fallen by the way side and the convictions brought home don't mean so much anymore and South America is just a continent coloured yellow on the map on the shower curtain.

If you don't get out from the shadows of the skyscrapers you can forget about the moon until one clear night you look up and there she is, a big onion face suspended over the metropolis and her sharp white light slaps you like a faceful of crisp winter air and you remember that the earth isn't flat and is actually so big that its mass alone keeps the moon in orbit and so you remember that the world is big, made up of more than De La Montagne and second cups.

And even just 10 kilometres that way is somewhere you have never been and thousands of kilometres westward maybe the drip of an air-conditioner hits a Mong Kok sidewalk just narrowly missing a Chinese man on his way to work on a street that hasn't known silence in 150 years while the scent of roast pork and exhaust mingle. And thousands of kilometres to the south maybe the very same moon hangs over the Andes and cold night air and darkness envelopes the valley where a mother sings a lullaby in Quechua to a little boy who still cries when his feelings are hurt.

Who knows? Maybe somewhere out there someone is under the moon kissing a dog on a sand dune. Maybe somebody is wondering what you're doing right now.






I guess they could just check Facebook if they really wanted to know.