He watched the moon from his bedroom window while his wife lay asleep, dreaming maybe.

The light was a hazy yellow and it shined down on his street. He wanted to catch the rays, wad em up and make a doll for his little girl down the hall fast asleep, dreaming maybe.

This was not a sliver, or a half moon. This was whole and beaming. Pickups passed underneath, semis sped towards it, and parked cars with teens in the backseats took in its magic, dreaming maybe.

It was three in the morning. He walked down to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Went out to the shed and looked at his guns hanging on the rack. They say the moon makes you crazy. There were dogs barking at it, wolves singing to it. He kept looking at his guns. Was he dreaming? maybe.