Silent sentinel, you appear in the east above the line of trees, slowly making your way upward and westward through a tangle of branches until you claim the sky. You defy treetop and limb, climbing ever higher, asserting your dominion over the night. Pale protector, you light the way for wild creatures, make their foraging easier, facilitate their hunting and gathering. I, on the other hand, stand in awe of your princely status made possible only by your king, the sun. And the billions of stars, his peers, are on this night your minions.

Shadows come to life, move beneath you and the wind bends unnamable shapes to its will in your humble glow. Farther back, into the deeper woods, your light breaks through in slivers, creating circles among last year’s leaves and painting tree boles the color of flesh, a shade possible only on your palette. Waning, waxing, gibbous or full, you never fail to excite, never shirk your duty as pale orb, as diminutive gem upon midnight’s velvet, less powerful perhaps, yet as necessary.

For without you, the seas would misbehave, would thrash uncontrolled against each other, and in their frenzy, would decimate shorelines. Without your gentle pull, our eyes would remain earthbound, our candle extinguished, our nights growing longer and more foreboding. For while we cannot look upon the sun, we can look upon you safely, surely and eternally. You have appropriated its glow and never tax us beyond our ability to see what a simple lump of stone amongst stars is capable of when given just enough light to work with.

Progeny of galactic impact or child of the Earth, you move resolutely ahead through the void, glowing from the effort, never misstepping, always sure. Now light, now dark, now full or new, you thrill no less now than when you were, a thousand ages ago, perceived a god, a ruler not to be displeased or ignored. We set clocks and calendars by you, determine fertility and life cycles, plan sowings and harvests, and celebrate them all beneath your benevolent gaze, your shadowy countenance.

You are Luna, the moon, a grand, old ship sailing in an endlessly vast, dark sea above us, your sails, at times, furled and at others, full and billowing. You see into souls, call to mind other times, reawaken old dreams. The world’s great solar nightlight, always there, as sliver or sphere, a constant reminder that, even in the deepest absolute darkness, there is nothing at all to fear.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at [email protected].