Garden District, New Orleans
John Baird
Night is slow to decamp from the Garden District. It’s not a matter of reluctance to leave — it’s more about the general lassitude of moonlight. Sunlight is busy, rushing about in waves or particles, always productive, never wasting a moment. Moonlight, like a big dog, turns around three times before settling in — and once settled doesn’t want its comfort disturbed.
The moon itself has already dropped below the horizon; the sunlight is nearby, poised on tiptoes, eager to begin –but the blue light still lingers, collected in dark pools, languorous. It will depart at its own speed, quietly, without fuss, yawning as it goes.
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