Moonrise

By Peter Bowden


The sun dropped behind the trees like a coin slipping through worn fingers. A stillness settled on the porch where the man sat, arms resting on his knees. Across the open field, shadows lengthened and the sky turned the color of old denim. He lit a match, watched it flare, then die just as quickly. The day had left quietly, without fuss or farewell.

Then came the first glimmer—a pale smudge against the deepening blue. Slowly, patiently, the moon climbed, round and sure, like it had somewhere to be. It rose behind the pines with a light that did not shout but whispered, a ghost of silver spilling across rooftops and fenceposts. The man stood and watched it rise, as if it had come just for him,  just for tonight.

Children would dream beneath it, and lovers would trace its light with fingers and promises. But he stood alone, feeling time stretch wide beneath the moon’s cool eye. It reminded him of things he had once known and things he had yet to understand. And for now, that was enough.

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