Moon Shot
by Mark Fleisher

She shakes me at midnight,
her words overflowing
with youthful excitement
She leads me out the door
where the humidity hangs
heavily under the black sky
There, she points, toward
the circle of faded yellow
framed by silhouetted
branches of a cottonwood
Stand here, she beckons,
and I obey, striding
a step or two onto
gravel biting into feet
protected only by thin socks
Like a painting, she exclaims,
my blurred eyes, starving
for sleep, manage to agree
My fingers fumble for
the camera icon of the phone
she thrusts into my hands
I dutifully aim and shoot
before returning to the sanctity
of my interrupted slumber
Watching the picture emerge
from my printer the next day,
she is thrilled, I am surprised
by the quality of the image
destined for her good news board
yearning for company
these dark days

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