The moon delights me. Always. Whether I glimpse her just past dusk or she finds me in the wee hours before dawn, peering in my window. She is a shy, silver cresent; she is as round and full as a belly about to bear. The moon makes magic from the mundane, with her light and her shadows, and creates a foreign country within the landscape of my bedroom. She pulls at my blood, at my own internal tides, and we cycle like sisters, the moon and I.