The sun chases the moon down
and it’s dawn. The pale sky
is criss-crossed with white
jet trails, fading lace over

the chateau across the fog-
filled field. I jog around
the park and huff home, hot.

The sun clears the treetops.
The mists lift from the lawns

and the long day turns bright
blue. At dusk David calls
to me from the porch, "Mom,

the moon!" and laughs. Sure
enough, she's up, chaste and
white, wearing her cool halo,
and the sun beds back down.