Last night I went out to look at the full moon. Classic country music from down the street wafted on the breeze, but I couldn't hear what song it was. I smiled. One of my neighbors was having a party.
The song ended and after a pause a new one began. This one was a little louder, and from the quality of the sound I could tell it was actually a live band playing, no drums, just guitars. I might have been hearing the practice session of a local band instead of a party.
The opening chords drew me in, so I sat cross-legged on the lawn. An old man's unsteady voice began, "On a long and lonesome highway/ East of Omaha/ You can listen to the engine moaning out its one long song..." and I was treated to a secret moonlit concert of Bob Seger's "Turn the Page," an endearingly off-key rendition, building artfully to passionate crescendo and then echoing away into the night.
As I waited for another song to rise through the frogs' and crickets' cacophony, the wind carried to me the heavy perfume of honeysuckle. I inhaled, remembering my childhood when honeysuckle grew right outside my window.
I considered weaving flowers into my hair and stripping off my clothes, letting breeze and full moon's light caress my fertility-goddess body as I danced under the oak. I was more than an observer of the night. I was a welcome--no, a necessary part of it.
The church bells echoed ten o'clock. I lingered a while longer, then I said good night to the moon and went inside.