Equatorial Disdain

The hillside lights up slowly, three blinking towers on the crest to make a crown. The sunlight dies, quickly, quickly now it dies. I wait patiently, day after day, for the full moon to come. Clouds skew my vision, take up all that open space and spit it right back at me.

You sons of bitches, you. You bloated equatorial currents of evaporated air billowing in from off of the Great Blue, shimmering deep and wide. I despise your condescending condensation, causing me to bend low muttering curses that sound like prayers.

This blue moon will drag me to it, right from 28 straight into 29.

This Ikea star hovers above me, throwing incandescent promises into the deepening night.