We, the Moon Watchers

They used to call us moon watchers, our eyes of guardian drones gazing the random access points of a diverting canvas of sleeping dreams. My father’s old telescope shows me your surface, your craters in which your skeletons may hide, or where your cold rocks lay without motion. You must feel alone, the uninhabited space much vacant, the stars much too distant to communicate. Oh, but fragile moon, take heed of this: we shall remain as your shadows, animations of the hills that connect the valley’s still. Sincerely, we, the moon watchers.