Moon Dance

All that resides under the sun is seen, analyzed and understood to an extent. The light that reveals vast colors in the day has a second persona, one that sucks the sweet juices of livelihood from all it touches, scrutinizing every last untouched detail of mystery and leaving in its destructive path only black and white, with no room for elaborate thought. All is measured and explained, and formulae preside over youthful minds in place of the fireworks of imagination. In sharp contrast, all that resides under the dim moonlight and the beams from the star-scattered night sky is inexplicable. There is a wide birth for ideas and the sheer bliss of not understanding. In the scant blue glow of the crescent moon, the beauties and beasts of nature and fairytales awaken and bear their faces, an array of flora and fauna alike. Nightmares and pleasant dreams collide in the dead of the night, away from the un-blunted gaze of the judging eyes of logic. Myth tramples meaning in the twisted affair that is the end of the daylight hours. The night is our home. We, angels and demons, creep from our concealment, our burrows and holes and dance with the cool air nipping at our bare toes. Wearing ghoulish iron masks forged by accomplished fingers, we celebrate in mockery of the daylight-dwellers, absorbed in our succulent secret. We are the wild ones. It is a carefree life we live, when the corrupt sun loses its infinite struggle for power with the moon. Around the bonfire we dance, branches ablaze as torches, blowing trumpets of bone and shells and howling in unison with the wolves. The carousal persists through the hours of darkness until the dew forms on the grass and the moon is wrenched from the sky by the ever-assiduous sun. Our screams shake the still air as the light caresses the landscape our revelry once called home, and we dart back to our deceptive shelters, in fear of being discovered and drained by the daylight. We are but invisible in the bustling world that the daylight brings, but still present in our waylaying. We are the wild ones, the inhabitants of the moonlight, and we will return in endless routine to avenge the dolorous and become omnipotent in our relentless and ambrosial nightly pursuit of magic. We watch as you go about your day, in the glare of the daylight. We follow your every move, and track your activities. We study your actions, awaiting the night, when we will once again be free to mend and sabotage. Simple, troubled.