It’s small hours when the phone rings.
“Hi Mo, Mi here. Get to the roof. Quick! I know you’re fond of moonrise. Watch the moon set!”
There’s a time when Mo lived unfellowed. He, like Paul Morel, often turned to Luna for company. How he silently celebrated the sighting of the curved sickle shape.
When Mo tiptoes to the top of the apartment, he gasps. It looks as if the full moon – a big round reddish bindi on the forehead of cerulean sky – is rising from the west!
“I feel fulfilled”, whispers Luna, “when your impassioned gaze washes over me.”