Reading Poetry by the Morning Moon Wind sweeps a stray cloud across the sky, exposing half of a gray-mottled moon. It’s nine-thirty in the morning, and the moon looks like an island in a pellucid sea. Sitting in the mossy crook of a hickory tree, my legs dangle above the creek. A walnut leaf drifts past, on its way through the valley, destined for the river and finally the bay. For a moment, I think of taking off my sneakers and socks, rolling up my jeans, and dipping my toes into the soft silt