a quarter-moon is overhead tonight, rushing westwards over rainish clouds,
pulling at our eyes and dreams and giving pale reminder of the time when we were
little more than scum, clinging to the shoreline’s rocks while that same moon now
overhead tugged at the salt-sea waters enwombing us, or rather at our somewhat slimy
distant ancestors, forcing what we would by great eventuality become to gasp
and grasp and grow out of our sheltering mother sea, the tidal moon marooning
us at the bare beginnings of a dry-land life that has come to have certain attractions,
such as this evening’s quarter-moon and scooting clouds, and such as what some small
family branch of that ancient scum grew up to be, that being the we who built
our ships to sail a different and quite hostile kind of sea, to reach at last one day
that moon whose own slow dance has called us into life and its contemplations.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)