The man on the moon looked like he had a clean shave and shone brightly. The stars didn't twinkle and long amber grass could be seen swaying in a far off field. There were cows clustering in the near pasture, eating and walking and shitting and mooing. The crickets were in singing their nightly opera. Across the valley there was the highway, about a mile from where I stood, little trails of light speeding by to civilization at three am. I looked up with my binoculars and could see the moutain ridges indent the edge of the moon, I saw the craters and other details of our celestial neigbhor quite well. I put my lens down and sighed, here I was, alone, on a peice of land that once had been the home of a proud indian tribe, trying to find meaning to my meaningless life. At least the Chumash actually used that land, I thought.

Suddenly I saw a streak of something dive into the the earth and scoop up a gopher. It was an owl that figured the now grazed pasture was a perfect hunting ground. The crickets were silent, resting, ready to sing their third act, the act of conflict, the act about the battle between good and evil and fall of the angels. Soon they would sing their sad song.

I sat down on the bare ground and thought. There must be more to life than this, more to life than crickets, and cows, and death, and life. There has to be more than survival. I looked up to the bare sky, dominated by the white glow of the moon sighed, it really never ends, ever.