The crescent moon rises sheepishly; the slightest breeze might dim it’s shimmer. Whispering palms hum in unison a melody taught them by traveling winter winds long before our time. San Jacinto Mountains cloak their sun-baked weariness with a cool, dew drenched, silver-platinum compress. Early evening owls hoot desert rats to sleep. Bats yawn. They can see for miles on parachute wings. The desert wind glides upon a sand-dune lunar landscape. Night begins anew. I think of you.