Dear Neil,
If there were wind, could be wind, it would blow slowly, causing dark gray grains of dust to bounce one on top of the other, rolling along in gathering numbers close to the ground as sand does on a cold day by the ocean's edge.

But there isn't and there can't be.

The sun burns in the black above, cutting itself a hole in the sky's dome and falling through. Everything bakes, dies, hot to the touch.

Until night sweeps past, like a cloud, black and thick, like the wind that cannot blow, and everything gives up. Gives up its heat, surrenders it in a burst of infra-radiance.

And black pools and puddles, pouring in from the low horizon, where the stars, not twinkling, have been born.

Visor retracted, eyes adjust to see stars fresh and cold, crisp. While from the heavens, plunge falling stars unseen, unilluminated, unhindered in the perilous descent as by that sticky mass enveloping the Earth. The Earth which holds its place in space, twisting and turning on itself, motioning neither to the right nor left.

Rocks jagged, unweathered by their billion-year rest, now hidden like obsidian in cave's belly, stick underfoot and presage the fortnight of flashlights and isolation especially pronounced.

Inside gloves that don't come off, hands sweat and itch nervously. All bodily functions are subsumed. Gastronomy bends to astronomy, and second chastity is as pure as moonbeams.

Clicking, hissing pops of static squawk from the radio as a third shift engineer passes time with you, trading jokes, monitoring from afar.

The once brilliant gold foil of the left behind landing pod is now painted blue by the dim, singular glow of the Earth. A wrinkled sleeping bag is retrieved from a compartment along with a tattered pillow and placed on a prepared patch of sandy soil.

The flag remains stiff, wire laced, and immobile. Its shadow blocks the earthshine, and you look up fondly, still as proud as on a day in July years ago, and you settle in for a an extended hibernation.

Goodnight moon,