the sun always rises, alfred thought to himself, stepping outside his house. there he already found its morning light creeping across the fields, its hand grazing the surface of a still pool. its light descended, cloudcast or not. if tempted to bet against it, he’d decline. no one wished to second guess its routine logic, for as prime mover, it set into motion all matters of life. it cultivated the wool and the ochre and the honeycombs, and led him by the nose to saddle the horses and survey the tenants and settle the taxes. alfred’s house once belonged to his father, and his father before that. they’d erected the house where the sun first revealed its place to them.

the moon was a separate affair. the night prior, alfred had walked down to the creek, right past the craigs overlooking the open valley, along the bridge and miles from the village. there he discovered himself alone, and so sat on a rock beside the creek—at the exact spot where the moon fell square between the trees—and in its full eye, alfred tore open his heart with a penknife, licking the blood from the tips of his fingers. he whispered to the garden snakes in their native tongue and harmonized with the blackcaps and the warblers. he bathed nude in the hot springs beneath the nearby falls, and dwelt on klaus reinghold’s eyelashes, the red stubble along his cheek. he kneaded his legs and and wailed, bending complete at the waist to hollow himself out.

but he was righted by morning and once again master of all he surveyed. he told his wife to fetch his father’s good hunting jacket, and ordered klaus to load two muskets for him. he wished to sneak away to the fields and shoot grouse and then head into town where his money would purchase a round for all the men at the local tavern. he’d sit at the corner table and nod at the old timers regaling him with stories of his father’s exploits. he would walk old maribelle back to the stables, and nod to all the tenants who came out from their homes to greet him.

for in two weeks time—on the night of the new moon—he’d return to the rock by the creek and dwell there in the dark without even a candle. he’d listen to the waters babbling and to the ferrets scuttling, to the garden snakes rummaging beneath the leaves. he’d bath patiently in the cool breezes, and let down his hair. he’d clear his mind entirely of klaus reinghold’s long lashes and the gray patches buttressing his temples. he’d breath and dry his eyes. soon the sun would come calling, as it always did. but the moon would assume another form.