milli trjánna

The road slops to the right and the orange moon skids into view between the trees, low and huge. It's at half, tipping on its bulge. I am afraid it will spill and fall into the pines. It is something to do with its being so low, the way a full teacup high on a bookshelf inspires fearful expectation, even though the cup would be no steadier on the floor than high up, and the moon is no more precarious for swinging where it does tonight.