Winter's roughened touch has left us, though still in dreams we find its echo, harsh remembrancers that we are, recalling all by pain and indignity. Having set alarms to catch the current moon at full, she arises from her slumbers, aroused and drowsy, trailing gossamer glories of her nightgown into the dim unlit living room. She stands silent beside me, we stand blandly, woozily wooed to do, to be, in all the accident of time together-- ourselves and in love--searching for the red moon with our pajama bottoms off, the whole quiet room luminous as a dish of water, surrounding curtains caught in a fabulous haze as almost-fog envelopes us, has us feel as if we exist within a cloud, our breaths heavily lunged as if still asleep, eyes squinted and salty as cracked pistachios and every window glowing cold. Like a captain, her hand shading out brimming halogen lights of the lot, Jenny breathes against the glass, slow one, slow two, and searches the skies for any trace of rouge. We are looking for that rare, red moon evinced from a thousand sunsets at once when earth trails her infected fires like a kiss across the silver deserts of Diana's moon, too perfect-pure to blush back at us. I had hoped, as we turned and plied about the room that I, that we, would stumble across the moon as I had once before stumbled into such looking luck when walking alone the still edge of a wood I came across a sleeping dappled fawn quiet as leaves, curled simple in an unattended nest. My walking-stick stopped like a secondhand tricked at the loss of time, my eyes gone wide in delight to see this dim thing that seemed but shadows of the sun, sun-flecked, white-floating spots of indifferent light, the dappled overcast of a low- hanging dogwood tree confusing all, confusing me, until the creature curling there seemed no more than an intensification of the grass, brown-white below, before me, its fallen breath a breathing of all the earth herself, those long careful legs snipped together like sleeping shears, the paired ears leanly alert: focused, still and present, upon myself even as my whole attention fell to it--our mutual life of a moment's dewy duration--and then led on by a sort of baby-snort, a twitch around the muzzle, I came all at once to see--those eyes! I cannot tell their oil-depth, their ink-heart-- how all the dappled mini-cosmos round our wooded cove was distilled to highlights in those grand eyes, yet not diminished, not in the least diminished, as I stared. And I came, in time, as my wildered consciousness grew more natively attuned, to know that I who watched was watched, that all I had thought was hid in me was plain as paper: all deeds known, all recorded there-- all no more than a single spark of light in the dark surface of that fawn's calm eye. In all our moon-excitement, did I say how we found the ground that April at three a.m.? The ground of crocus bud and of daffodil newly come to their spring bloom, first bloom sweet as Easter candy newly caught unwrapped? A whiteness as of a wedding-walk was gifted everywhere. A still, sudden frost, an April frost, was over all. As if, because we'd missed the rouge moon, this other, lesser blessing was bestowed--yet more than bestowed if I think on it aright--strewn like bales of dogwood petals littered everywhere. We never found the moon that night, nor any tippler's tainting tint of pink in all that cloud-strewn, cloud-molested sky that stayed a starless haze, although we stared, finding our orientation by iPhone app and guess, standing together on the little balcony there, listening to trees meekly creak in their sleep as all light drifted down to our upward eyes. Softly, her sudden hand was at my back-- her breath a wordless whisper in my ear. I knew, despite the sky's cloudy recalcitrance, all I'd found.