Reflections of an Apollo astronaut.

Nothing ever moves upon the moon except shadows, which circle the mountains and the maculate, still seas. At home there is no rest: blue seas are rich, yellow harvests brim, and sounds of engines fill the mountains and the fields.

In Pennsylvania, in winter's quiet, snow ghosts the hills and semis sleep. A car drives on in the spirit country, with the radio off and the winged snow like a messenger.

Unheard, the lunar music radiates in sunlight on the cliffs and pours like wind across the tranquil sea...

Home is a song, my friend, heard in the runner's step, heard through the chaos of springs and stars.

Locusts drown the orchard and the sky. Hypnotic voices charm the traveler siphoning his dreams - He wakes desireless, seeking just the placid drone of motion.

Onyx and coral, Orion lusters in the moon's heavens, the Pleiades there are milky and virginal, beckoning to other seas and other gardens. (We ran like children, our souls laughed to see them.) A musical dust burns at the air's edge, a musical light touches the towers of cities, and the amazed deaf wonder their souls should hear.

Someone buys coffee, steals crackers: a meal for kings and queens. In prospect from the Apollo Diner miles stretch away like open hands; vapor lamps, flood lights intensify, braceleting dusk.

Ocean's sleepy chant enwraps the coast; trucks speed east and west, white and red lights; wind whistles in the dark pine. We say goodnights while planes fly on, rasping the hard resilient sky, gliding in ample dawn, landing with a final click, continuous.