Moonlit

After the paella last night we went driving in search of light. Over back roads to country roads to fox country. The horses had been stabled for the night. The big trees that had split with the last wind storm were exposed. In the car music playing, three-quarter time, so that there was not much need for talk, and through the windows of the big old houses you could see the spires of pines, the flames wrapping fireplace logs, two or three still lingering over meals. Most of the houses were fringed with white lights, quiet and unboastful lights, and we drove south then west then north, and only finally east, where we found the light I suppose we'd been looking for—the moon, which had leapt like a fish to the sky. She was salmon colored and low when we found her. She grew gold and more distant as she rose. I thought that if I drove faster I might catch her, but, no, she was up there on her own.