Moonlight Report

Trom and Fletcher sat fishing on the bank of Indian Creek, in theory anyway. Four hours in and the sun had moved out of the thick line of pine, blasting solar rays down on their straw hats. This was their fifth outing. Flecher liked hanging with the freaky little green dude with a shell on his back. He was the consummate hillbilly: schrewed but trustworth and came with a supply of varying booze.

The teacher dreaded the summer heat and regretted not changing out of his pressed white shirt before laying on his stomach in the field. He stared the little flower in the face. “Lily, tell me what you do all day.” “I gaze at my beloved,” she looked over her ring of pedals. “Why though? Surely, you could take a nap or knit or read a book?” “He gives me light so that I can see him.

Steven returned his photography gear to the back of his ‘71 Chevy Constitution, closed the door and asked Mr. Ward about the light shining through the trees. The sun was below the treeline on the other end of the valley, casting long shadows across what Steven and I affectionately called The Lost Highway. And in the not yet darkened sky, I picked out a white light - on for about a second and off for three.