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.