Waist of Time

Ten o' clock and all's well. Relatively speaking. I've got nothing to say, but it's okay, as John Lennon sang in that sanguine sangfroid of his. There's a dish full of sinks waiting for me in the other room. They know it, I know it. But I'm thinking I should go out and see the moon, which is going to be full in a few days. Waxing. Pity that Icarus didn't take his flight at night. No melting wax under a cold moon. But also no fable against over-lofty ambitions and disobeying your father. One of which maybe applies to my son, who's not getting ready for bed because he's strumming his electric guitar (no amp) and probably thinking of the Battle of the Bands this Saturday. His band goes first.

I did the dishes. I went outside. The rain yesterday has left a gallery of sculpted snow out there, derelict & fantastic. The moon is high and bright and gibbous, about 3/4 full, bright enough to flood the sky with light. I could barely make out Orion: eleven tiny pinheads in the sky. Stars, zillions of miles away, but hanging meekly over Walgreen's like an ad. I saw the moon and the moon saw me. Not really. The moon is blind, but it's an open book. It's a Kindle.

This is the isthmus in the hourglass between two birthdays, Burns's and two others'. I didn't want the birthday boys right next to each other. Wanted a little separation. Hence this waist of time. (no originality points for that phrase: 26 million citations in Google, some accidental.) Just a little narrow voyage from ten to midnight with a moon break. (Good morning!)