What does the moon think as she glides over the land, her underside barely illuminated by a patchwork of celebratory explosions? Is she jealous of the revelry, the self-indulgent, pyrotechnic insanity that covers the hide of the earth? Or does she delight in the multi-colored displays of retina-searing colors and spark trails crisscrossing the sky?
Tonight she flutters and struts behind gauzy clouds, round and robust, bathing in sunlight that has long since forsaken the crowds below. Her glow is heavenly, healthy, and sensuous. The trees on the ground stretch their old kinked limbs towards her through the smoky night.
I like this a lot. I'm pretty sure I was feeling this way last Monday, my last night in Bohol--this beautiful, jungly island with aquamarine water and white sand and pink sunsets that look like ice cream flavors (too tired to make this one into 100 words, so i'll just comment on yours haha)
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