Sometimes, a prompt is a test. Can I disengage from the day’s busyness—the yoga session way too many hours ago; the website updated; the walk squeezed in, almost without noticing the brisk air, the colors shifting in the trees; the breakfast cooked, the manuscript given a first read. A good day so far, a productive day, but full of distractions from writing.

So, the test. The quieting of the mind. The reaching inward, inward, inward, away from the day, The fingers connected to the keyboard, typing, typing, waiting for the words to find the keys, the fingers to connect to the brain, the heart, the belly. The keyboard waiting, waiting, the fan running, cooling the processor in preparation for the rush of word, thought, and image. The gentling of the racing mind, the random thoughts, the panic, as I remind myself this is a test I can’t fail. This is an open book test, and I am the book, I am the test, I am the topic. 

Or perhaps today the source is the moon, round diversion from the tumult of earth, everywhere today I hear the moon, the moon, did you see the moon, oh, yes, last night, but this morning, did you see it this morning. Everything reminds us of the miraculous hunter’s moon, I think this one is called, and nurtures hope for other moons, the beaver moon, the cold moon, the wolf moon and the snow moon, their recurring promise of at least two other days where perhaps we can forget the persistent eroding of our belief in better days to come , the shifting of the ground beneath our feet. Two days of golden moon, floating up from the horizon, soaring over our heads, lingering into the morning, singing her silent song: I am here. I was here before you. I will be here after you. These times will pass, and I will be here, waning, waxing, circling in my wobbly path, approaching, retreating, but always returning. I am a barren chunk of rock and mineral, but still I bring this miracle of golden light to heal your aching eyes.

Thank you, moon.