The moon stares down like a watchman, seeing all the streets and all the peasants witnessing the wind flow by, its turbulence howling and howling and wishing and wishing. It wants to mingle with the hills and the trees in some destined troika, some power witnessed by the one upon the mountainside, who will clap them along across the plain. He sees the steeple standing there like the elder, sustained by little meals, yes, little words that he has been digesting for more years than anyone remembers. Yet every now and again he is released in the great pulling of the rope and the great ringing of the wedding bells. “Come! Here is something one must hear! I have felt the wind dancing and seen the hills excitement, and today we shall join them in their merriment!” So that the little huts and shacks might come shrieking their excitement as the children do when they know nothing better. The blues and blacks whisper to the yellows of the large sky and dare them to join it. Even the gnarled tree watches on with anticipation because when the evening sky dances with the earth’s breathings, the moon watches on knowing what newness comes with the evening breeze.