Tonight, when the sun has finally conceded the day to its distant but ever larger kin, the moon will again sing her ever waning song hoping we will join in a chorus we have so long forgotten, bound to the earth in body and in waxing thought.
We will stop and listen perhaps, over the din of the city, the traffic, the animals conversing with the sky, our thoughts, but the words will now be an alien language for which we have no dictionary, only the faint memory of the place from which both we and the moon share cosmic ancestry.
Three beers over two hours and, giddy, I want to sing along with the Irish house band in my horribly off-key voice, just two choruses of Irish Rover or Four Green Fields. It’s beginning to snow outside and it’s a four-block walk to the Government Center station. I suppose it would sober me up but a couple of more songs couldn’t hurt, I’ve got two hours before the last train and we can walk across the campus through the tunnels once we’re back in Cambridge. I probably should have gone with Coors or Bud Lite but Guinness is, all said, a meal in a glass. I would stand now, but my knees seem comatose, so let’s sing to Auld Robbie, a verse or two of Scots Wa Hae, it’s damn near Irish anyway and from this seat in the Black Rose Cambridge is a world away.