Prayer to the Moon God

Ran last night. Up the street, around the corner. Under the black tree branches, which were stark against a misty sky. I like running in the dark. Moist air, night air. Silence.

Back home, couldn't make myself go into the house, so I made my way down the side path, to the little yard. Took the red sled and lay under the pine tree. Moist air, night air. Smell of dead leaves. And the moon above, presiding over silence.

When I finally went to leave, the moon had risen, a full orb cradled between the arms of the maples. Silent night. And I thought of all the people through all the ages who have prayed to the moon, or the stars, the sun or the crops, the earth and its creatures.

I understood the mistake. Understood the urge. There, as I stood under the beautiful moon, red sled in hand. Silent night. Yes, holy night.

How lovely are the things you have made, my God of the moon. My God over the moon.

"Bless the LORD, O my soul...
you stretch out the heavens like a tent...
you ride on the wings of the wind...
O LORD, how manifold are your works!
In wisdom you have made them all;
the earth is full of your creatures." (from Psalm 104)