The soft, rhythmic creak of the rocker was the only discernable sound of humanity on the cabin’s wooden gallery though crickets and other resonant night creatures were evident to the solitary observer. The old man listened to the songs of nature while gazing at the ancient, golden orb rising low in the eastern sky. He and Molly had spent countless evenings here talking quietly or sometimes just listening and watching with contentment.
Molly had often spoken of the moon particularly when it was of the harvest variety like tonight. She had admired its warm beauty knowing that in reality our planet’s lone natural satellite was a cold, barren reflector of the sun and the keeper of the tides. But in her presence the oft disregarded lunar display had taken on a magical quality.
Molly’s rocker has now been idle for sixteen cycles of the orbiting sphere that the man watched through the distant tree tops. Yet the emptiness he felt was nearly as fresh as if it was yesterday that he listened to the tearful eulogies for his life mate. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket determined to maintain his vigil despite the autumn chill. Watching the moon as it gradually drifted higher on its nocturnal arc was important to the man. This was the same moon that he had watched with Molly by his side and tonight he could sense her loving presence.