Many moons to come.

Awakening on the couch, I am not alone.  The darkest hour is said to come before the dawn, but a stream of cool white light filters through the leafless branches of the elms.  The moon is high in the sky, her belly filled with the light of the coming sun, her horns drive into the darkness and subdue it.  We mark time together, in the ancient way.  As she slips past each frozen bough, her face, winking, remains constant.  She will never turn away.  She is a dervish, a dancer, with an eye only for this world. What need then for clocks? She is on watch for me, many moons to come.

Suspicions

Wait, what?  Was that the green thing?  No, it was one of the purple things from over there, it must have been.  We can't afford to lose another green one, though the cylindrical things are easy enough to replace.  Mr. Brown is thinking about getting one of the low, flat ones.  They are very well put together, and nobody would be able to fit through the opening with one.  The purple ones could be hidden under Mrs. Vee's cloak and spirited away, however.  We are installing more of the hemispheres to record the progress of time, so even if a blue thing does go walking we'll be able to note who acted as bandit.  A small number of suspicions rest on Ms. Queue.  She is forever rubbing her scent perceptor.  Some of the white granules may be going in there.  We'll let you know.

gun control

She's riding shotgun in his heart

Never pull the trigger

And there's no concern for safety

Now she has a wing-man.