the moon is her anchor

"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.” ― Andrew Wyeth

Dusk in late autumn is perhaps the most beautiful time of all.
The trees are cloaked in garments of leaves in the warmer months, but it is not until the garments are shed in the colder months that we are left with the bare, lonely beauty of the landscape. When the wind blows in the winter, it is not accompanied by the rustle of leaves, but rather an aching silence. The numbing, desperately lonely quiet conveys all that winter needs to say--but only the man who cares enough to listen will hear (and understand) the silent message.
At dusk in late autumn, the trees are almost bare but not quite; against inky blueness that seems an almost tangible entity, their skeleton forms are fragile but still quietly stoic; the crescent moon, framed by the colorless branches, seems all the more luminous.
I have been outside every night at sunset lately--going to and from work and delivering fundraiser popcorn with my brother and random wanderings about the neighborhood. When I walk, my eyes are glued to the heavens above me. I do not know why such a large part of humanity stares at their feet and the concrete underneath them when there is a vast expanse above to be seen. Perhaps it's because to simply fathom how infinite the sky really is seems impossible; sometimes I have to sit down in a quiet place to think about the thousands, millions, billions, trillions of galaxies and nebulae and planets that exist outside of my little world.
And thousands, millions, billions, trillions miles below, a girl stands outside, alone. The moon is her anchor.