Watching the Moon Die.

There’s a waning moon looking through my office window. She’s the colour of golden syrup turned sugary, and is sitting flaccid and forlorn in a most unaccustomed and uncomfortable position a little way above the horizon. It seems she hasn’t the strength to climb higher. She’s a dying moon; her light is fading; she has only a week to live. She’ll rise again to watch the owl hunt and hear the fox bark, but for now…