Woven with a fabric of clouds, the navy sky (dark and warm like bubbling pits of tar) holds the yellow moon in it’s palms for the birds to eat. An outstretch of plants decorates the sandbanks' golden grain. The birds feet patter up the trees for take off. The fireflies winks direct their journey and a choir of ecstatic mice watch to cheer them on. 

Snapping turtles battled the bullfrogs for pennies thought to be mice under the docks. Their splashes startled the raccoons sleeping in hollowed out logs filled with bottle caps, stars, and baseball cards. They awoke like cranky babies to scavenge the docks with disgruntled attitudes and hissed at a passing sailor to bask in more forgotten trash, as is tradition every night. 

Somewhere in the distance, driving down highway 30, a woman sings along with the radio she blasts every night at 11 o’clock. Her engine sputters like dandelion dew. Its smog drifts elsewhere to join the ocean’s salty sea mist and a sailor’s tears. 

He was home yet again, but just for the day. In that brief moment before he had to abandon land for another month, he allowed the sand to tickle his feet as he wiggled his toes out of his work boots on the luminescent beach below highway 30. A boisterous car passed overhead, a fleeting memory gone in an instant as he laid under the stars. 

The navy blue sky, speckled with the eyes of millions of stars, hadn’t housed a full moon for over 30 days. From their place in the air, the yellow birds soared through the warm, reposeful evening, watching down upon it all; at the smog and work boots, at the pennies and cranky babies; at course of the yellow moon.