The moon this morning is a golden horn. To the south and west, the planets are shining — Jupiter, Venus. Yesterday at the same morning hour the moon was a creamy horn, caught, like an animal in a thicket, in a mesh of trees.

Sycamore thoughts are exquisite, beginning in the mud and branching into higher math. And sycamore hearts beat with reverential slowness in their capacious woody chests, one beat per human lifetime.

Astronomy is a mystery to me, but the fact that the full moon sets just behind Joe’s house — that’s easy to understand. If I were the moon, traveling alone all night, I would take my rest there, too.