It is dark outside but there is a half moon above, hanging at the very top of the sky, faintly hissing like a Colman lantern exhaling the last quarter inch of its life, still enough to bathe the beach in a dim, milky blanket of light, blotted black by the knuckles and palms of the stunted trees that stand where the rush of the surf always ends. One star is dangling beneath the moon, as if on a string, and gently, ever so slightly sways. Thin clouds ruminate, uncertain, fickle, wondering what next to do. One feathery leg strides forth while the other flees. Three men with flashlights search the shallows for shellfish while the water tugs at their knees, and far out to sea a ship as tiny as the least visible star in the sky moves steadfastly along the horizon, more resolute, more consequential than the vast, inscrutable heavens and earth. How can all these things all at once be? And how have they conspired to include me?