This one, too, if you--
perhaps now that I've said it--
might also be a teaching piece or something to learn from.
And this has to do with people observing the Moon.
And I learned this from my father and my mother,
about the different phases of the Moon.
And the new Moon, when it's just a little sliver,
if it's tilted, they'll say it's going to rain, because it looks
like it's emptying its content.
So I've been thinking about that for a long time.
And I saw a woman a couple of years ago.
It was late spring, and it wasn't
going to be raining any time.
And it was at a bus stop over on Rodger Road,
and it was about 10 o'clock in the morning.
And she was wearing a rain poncho,
and it didn't look like rain.
So this is how that one starts.
And I just called it "Sliver of a Moon."
"I saw a woman wearing a rain poncho at the bus stop.
She did not look up at the Moon last night.
A sliver of a Moon does not beckon you to gaze upward.
A full one, on the other hand, does.
It calls, nearly shouts with light to look up, and we do.
An average human is 50% to 70% water.
The moisture in the mouth, nostrils,
and the fluid the eyeballs must float in,
the moistness in the ears competing
with wax and other debris, not to mention other larger
bodies of moisture pulsating through the heart
and our arteries, making its way through all the filters.
We are, after all, mere plumbing.
There were three silver Moons this year--
a full moon so close to the Earth, so white
appearing silver.
I went out in this light.
The shadows were well defined, almost as if it was Sunlight.
But even such a Moon did not forecast rain the way
a new Moon can.
A sliver, a shard, a slice, an early phase of the Moon
is not worthy of a tilt of the head.
The woman at the bus stop did not look up at the Moon
last night.
If she had had, she would have seen the slight bowl was not
tilted enough to spill its contents,
and would have known a rain poncho on this morning
would not have been a choice."
So look up.