Golden moon

Last night, as we prowled the boundaries before sleep the moon was golden, a harvest moon, the wolf's sun. Low on the horizon, she looked heavy in her cloth of gold, struggling to rise and rule in her court of stars. Now, in the early morning of a blue sky Indian summer day, she still hangs in the sky high above, bone white, cold and glorious. As the sun rises she begins to fade to a pale translucence. Both in the day and in the night she is glorious.