We laughed together on the phone. They had seen so many varied stunning artworks, described their detail well while I imagined. It’s called the Harvest Moon because it helped farmers work late to finish their work before the first frost. In the high desert the sun has retired but I sure can see around me. A solitary coyote howl careens sharply through the open sky ahead of the distant highway buzz. Across that street is Mesa Verde. Three moons ago I cried heading up, sang in the canyons. At this campsite she and I talked for eight hours one lazy day, I swaying in my hammock. Returning, to somewhere around 6,500’, the warm breeze reminds me that my world is the same. Only this moonlight demands to bathe bare bodies; in my mind it’s yours with mine. Ninety nights, or a lifetime: it took another week for my heart to catch up. Not much, so much, has changed.

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