Tonight the moon seeks pure pleasure.
It is an untamed satellite unleashed on the night.
Ever since The Big Bang shoved it into the waiting arms of Earth, this perverted rock of gas and dust has envied the blue-green planet’s “joie de vivre.”
By its very nature the moon is an introvert and brooder.
It cannot help itself, overcome as it is with elliptical envy, held captive as it is by overwhelming gravity.
It has become Earth’s nocturnal voyeur, sighing over tides, going through phases, parting the dreary curtains of night like some shameless peeping tom, leering at a life it can never have.
Tonight the moon is self-indulgent and full of itself.
It will defy science and explode into myth, no longer an orbiting object but a formidable force.
The fetid hair of werewolves will stand on end in salute to the
victory of fur over skin.
Bats will launch out of belfries at the stroke of midnight
in blitzkriegs with weapons of rabies.
Wolves will sing feral karaoke in primitive harmony
in backwoods bars.
And lunatics, human lunatics, will dance their
fandangos of fits born of frenzy.
For on this evening born of change and madness the moon declares its vendetta, taking back the night with no hostage or demand.