Slate stepping stones lead up the grassy hill to a fieldstone arch. Flowering vines climb and tumble over the stones in green-leafed embrace. A heavy wooden door is set within the arch; which is older – door or stones – is difficult to determine. The stones, plucked from the surrounding hillside, are worn; their serrated edges smoothed. But the door, too, has aged and hardened. Once ligneous in nature, the door’s brass-bound boards have absorbed the elements and now mimic the solidity of their frame.
Just above the hill, just beyond the closed door, as if waiting to be invited in or to welcome and entertain, the full moon hovers. It is enormous in size and brilliance, hung against the immense, black back-drop of star-pricked night. The moon’s calling card of light slips beneath the door’s crack, limns its edges. And, at eye level, a small, crescent moon cut from the door’s face, traps and holds the moon’s glow.