Excerpt of Conversations With The Moon by Amy Neftzger

"The moon is particularly bright this evening. He seems to be smiling at some great satisfaction. I can see him clearly through the silhouette of the barren trees. I look up at him through a cloud of my own frosty breath as I remark aloud that it's a fine evening. I watch the puffs of frosty breath disappear, and then I hear him speak for the first time.

"The evening is too fine and my light too magnificent for anyone to spend this time alone." His silvery voice shimmers down to my ears.

I first turn around to look behind me, although I had clearly heard the voice coming from above. "You are not deceived." He smiles kindly at me. "It is I, the moon."

His voice is like liquid poetry flowing through me. The sound doesn't stop when it reaches my ears; it continues to resonate through my entire body.

"How is it that you can speak?" Now that I know him better, the question seems foolish. But at the time I was dumbfounded and didn't know what else to say. After all, what does any mortal say to the moon upon first conversing?

"I speak when I choose and to whom I choose. No one can hear me speaking, except for those I wish to be my audience." This is part of his magic. If there were anyone standing nearby to whom the moon wishes to remain anonymous, the person would fail to hear the moon's voice or to even see his face. The moon would appear as nothing more than a stoic mass of illuminated stone in the night sky.

"Do you speak to many people?"

"A few," he remarks with an air of pretension that tells me more than his words. He chooses his audience carefully. "I speak every language -- even those of the stars, the animals, and the trees. But I wouldn't advise talking with the trees this time of year. Every autumn they fall into the depths of despair and insist that their leaves will never return. They're quite dramatic about it all. Of course, the leaves return in the spring, but there's no use explaining that to a melancholy poplar. I simply don't bother with them." After giving me this off-hand advice, his tone becomes playful. "I have watched you for some time."

"I have watched you, as well. But I never dreamed that you were capable of watching me."

"It makes me by far the better observer." He smiles knowingly at this thought. What things might he have seen? What knowledge he must have! His smile conveys it all in a single moment.

"What have you seen that might interest me?" I inquire with anticipation. He is fanciful and content, all at the same time. Clearly, he's pleased that I'm so interested

in him. The sparkle in his eyes becomes more spirited as he prepares his answer.

"In one night, I see enough interesting events to last a human lifetime. But the most fascinating of all these things are the effects that individuals have on one another. Perhaps this is the essence of life: that it is not entirely independent." He closes his eyes in a thoughtful manner. As he raises his eyelids, moonbeams splatter shimmering rays from his eyelashes and fan out across the galaxy. "Take you and me, for instance," he continues, "two entities cannot exist without influencing each other. Even if the two beings never acknowledge each other, the mere proximity of one will have an effect on the other."

"But how close must two entities exist before their effect upon each other is made known?"

"Proximity is relative. You and I are far apart, yet we influence each other nightly. When I look down at earth, I see that proximity is never farther than my moonbeams can reach, and that is nearly everywhere. You only have to be on the same planet to have your life affect another life." He pauses. I think this was for effect, rather than to collect his thoughts. "The earth is a good example. There are many people who seek isolation, but it is impossible. It cannot be. Mere existence requires interaction. It is inevitable." He pauses to sigh. I admire his incandescent stream of breath as it rushes through the heavens, dancing a meandering path through the starry night. His breath moves more like an illuminated ballerina twirling across a stage than a wind through space. It glows brilliantly. "I am reminded of a story." And here he began his first narration of many.