Swinging From a Crescent Moon

The Boy is only three and, like his father, marvels at the sight of a bright crescent moon. There’s something romantic, I think, about the crescent moon that the full moon lacks. There’s the sense that, could you reach it, you could swing freely from the downward handle, or recline in its inverted arch, or if you chose, sweep away the shadows and make it whole again. There is a specialness to the crescent moon’s incompletion. A hint of things to come, perhaps.