The eyes. Blue, a hazel starburst, the whites clouded lightly with wisps of red. Crow’s feet just beginning to scratch the midsummer complexion. One lid hangs imperceptibly lower than the other, reaching further, or resting. The unblinking stare, focus. Intent.

The afternoon sun reflects with a subtle haze, falling off into the white, a field of grass in sepia tone sways gently in the breeze.

A silver half-moon sits above the horizon.

From a cigarette rises a plume of smoke. Thin and quickly dispersed. With a tear the eye, the stronger of the two, shuts and reopens, a tremor, a wink.

The moon remains. And so does the past, waxing for eternity.