At my 3 a.m. trip to the loo, a bite has been taken from the left thigh of the full moon. Somewhere a warrior shaman beats drums to drive away a dragon. Elsewhere a mage tries to sing the moon back to wholeness. No sea fog. Few clouds. I return to sleep while the full lunar eclipse reddens the sky. At 6 a.m. the shadow, having crossed to the moon’s other side, pauses in parting to kiss the moon’s waist. How peacefully we slept, safe from dragons, safe from magic, safe from the devoured falling moon.
the cauldron of oatmeal