It is Friday. The late moon is white in the early branches. The tangle makes a sparkle of her. It is Friday and I want to be right where I am. I am trying to be. The chill rests on the ridge of my cheekbones and folds itself over my toes. I have reached for an old, unlovely sweater, for the comfort of its old familiarity. I am grateful for that. And for the horns of the moon. And for the dream's exhortation to write wish lists as a means of correspondence with myself when I must spend some time apart. Grateful for the dream and for the simple act of wishing and all that it reveals.