The moon didn’t present itself once
the entire time I was in Colombia
if my memory serves me right.
I can even recall wondering where it was
on the clearer nights when I would stay up
late by myself.
It hid itself well until the last evening on the way to the airport.
My sister and her fiancé, my father, cousin, and I
we all rode quietly in a large, old Nissan van
filled with bags and anticipation
for the red-eye back to the States.
I had to double take and blink a few times when I saw it:
an impossibly sharp sliver of yellow-white light
just hanging there above Bogotá.
It was so clear you wouldn’t believe.
I felt as though it was trying to elude me,
but had failed.
That crescent moon held my attention
for the duration of the bumpy ride
though the battered, graffiti-filled streets
we left behind.