***
Nothing was visible, except a bright triangle of moon between the branches of a struck tree. All else was black soil, black wood, black leaves, gleaming black barricades. And the sounds were black too.
The rest of the moon was nowhere to be seen. It was just the triangle; a gift for which we should be grateful. So many children have been spoiled by an entire circle. Curves are an unnecessary luxury.
A triangle of moon is more than enough, for romantic skies and ominous lycanthropic portents. The rhythm and magic of the tides remains unbroken. Everything is as it should be. The vulgarity of a circular moon is a full-beam headlight on a country road: into the hedge we swerve, into a dry-stone wall, into the black trunk of a tree.
Think about others. Dip the headlight. Pare it down.
The triangle is the strongest shape in nature. It will shine a light on our own strength.
And for the greedy eye that asks for more? It shall be blinded by circumferent wonder, and will weep for the beneficence of Pythagoras.
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