Silky Josephine, Peter Pan, Harley and I are out on the High Hill, watching the much-talked-about, but not at all pink full moon in snatches through dark and racing clouds.
‘Why is it called a Pink Moon, if it’s not really pink?’ Silky asks.
She's been dreadfully concerned lately with the science and facts and general workings of things, big and small.
‘It was named the Pink Moon a long time ago,' I tell Silky, 'after a pink flower that blooms this time of year, a phlox, Subulata. We can look it up in your flower book later, if you’d like.’
Silky nods. And for a while we watch the full moon in silence until, ‘Pink would have been nice though,’ she says. ‘I like pink.’
‘Why is it called a Pink Moon, if it’s not really pink?’ Silky asks.
She's been dreadfully concerned lately with the science and facts and general workings of things, big and small.
‘It was named the Pink Moon a long time ago,' I tell Silky, 'after a pink flower that blooms this time of year, a phlox, Subulata. We can look it up in your flower book later, if you’d like.’
Silky nods. And for a while we watch the full moon in silence until, ‘Pink would have been nice though,’ she says. ‘I like pink.’
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