Fruit

Driving earlier, I again was chasing the moon—a little past full now, its flesh like the flesh of a fish. You don't realize how east-west roads north-and-south themselves until you try to keep your eye on the moon. The moon chase is a futile chase, but still you get somewhere.

Tonight, in the midst of more work, I remembered the moon, then remembered the apples I'd stacked together last summer, when the days were longer and answers seemed more within reach.