The Harvest Moon Wight

One late fall night, out in a lush field, not a building or tree as far as the eye can see... In the grass lies a pale figure. The delicate green blades of life catch a little betwixt it's fingers and toes. As it stares into the endless crypt of stars above, "Is what I feel is truly immediate, or merely a projection from elsewhere?" the figure pondered. The Moon was in it's more rare harvest form; a warm orange hue, like a giant pumpkin in the sky. As the pale figure in the grass reaches it's hand out to grasp at the moon as if it were only but a couple feet away, wisps of vapor trailed from the milky arm it raised into view. As if it were like water set to boil itself away. Noticing this, the figure's mind focuses more on the question it had asked to no one in particular. Then "Up... Why do I look up?" it wondered.

Up. Again, it raises it's hand at the sky, up it goes. Up go the vapors of it's existence into the air, fading as if it were matter undoing itself before it's very eyes. "What am I? Am I like the night owl is to the harvest moon sky?". Then again "Why am I? Why does the owl take to the sky?" the figure wonders deeper. "What is it that drives us? What is truly no different from the same impulse that guides the owl to take air, the child to yearn for the parent?... This thing we attempt to identify. Why do I look up? Rather, why do I look *in* or *for*...?". The night owl gliding in the sky, the figure laying in the grass. Both take search. One wonders why, the other wanders and does.

The Harvest Moon glistens in the milky white eyes of the wispy figure lying in the grass. It continues to lay, processing mental throes profound while the owl above searches for the next meal to clutch between it's toes. It knows not that the Moon truly isn't as still as it seems, that the hue of orange a reflection of the Sun. The Owl knows nothing of the science how the wind under it's wings keep it afloat, nor does the the Moon itself know that it is moving, yet seemingly disappears from one side of the planet to another, giving way to the morning behind it. "Why?" the pale ghost wonders. "Why do I ask myself this? To find a meaning? To identify? Why identify?" The thoughts begin to swirl and twirl in the mind of the night spirit.

Nestling through the night, the spirit of the night, The Milky Wight continues to question "Why?" as it continues to ponder into the Harvest Moon space. Searching for a reason why, why the night owl, gives chase in the night during the twilit hours of the sky. Unbeknownst the knowledge of academia and primal impulse of nature and it's inhabitants, the spirit is unable to scry the reasons for these things that have taken to the sky. The reasons as to "why" may never truly come to the mind's eye of the wight staring into the sky. For the Wight, even after crossing such a boundary that divides life and the afterlife, "why" never comes, but rather "is". As the twilit hours of the Harvest Moon wane, tendrils of ghostly flame, the vapors of the wight seep into the winds of the night. Into the wings of the owl, the vasts of space. Never truly discovering "why", but just being a part of what "is" like everything else.