"The moon isn't as bright tonight."
"No.
But it's there, though."
He didn't think about the words so much as spoke them,
and for all his attempts at poetry
(failed attempts, if we're being honest)
this was his noblest achievement.
"No. But it's there,"
muttered though the haze of campfire, Cubans and seltzer,
shallow thoughts resonating into the still night,
gathering depth in their simple, unarguable truth.
For it was there,
above the still pine silhouette,
small against that great, deep indigo.
It was there,
would still be there,
maybe always will be . . .
And though it wasn't so bright,
we all gazed up at it,
and thought about it,
and smiled at it, and him,
(and I scribbled it down to remember it)
and felt the warmth of the fire,
and took comfort in it and that simple cowboy wisdom:
"But it's there."