Moon hung full and fat over the long flat horizon of the Pacific Ocean some fourteen miles to the west of Sunset Beach. She grew large and warm as she hung there anticipating her imminent plunge to the depths of the sea.
Night had been good to her, peacefully absorbing her gentle glow into hills and valleys and trees and rocks, reflecting it softly back from rivers and ponds and the swells rocking gently behind the crashing surf of the great salty beach. But now her time was done. Sun was waiting in the wings to the east, his act rehearsed and ready. It was that magic time of Moon’s cycle when she met Sun for only a few short moments, morning and evening. And remarkably, she was repeating her act for the second time in March—a blue moon.
She gently settled closer to the distant sea, nearly touching it now. The thick, heavy salt air pressed against Moon’s underbelly, flattening it as she settled against the water. Now she should have been sinking into the sea, but a remarkable thing happened. As she dipped below the line of the horizon, she appeared never to actually touch the water. Her flattened underside remained just above the surface while the mass of her body seemed to diminish steadily. Soon her top was all that remained, a small glowing lozenge floating horizontally over the water. Then she was gone, having never gotten wet. Tonight she would return, slightly diminished from her fullness, to repeat the ritual. And by tomorrow morning the blue moon would be waning imperceptibly, and April would be born.
But for now, Sun had taken the stage, calling to Moon from the wings, striding over the dunes with his usual fanfare and flourish. She had smiled toward him as she set, not speaking, as usual, reflecting his radiance with her silver grace until the end.
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