An eroded moon. An orange grim thing. That is the night sky that welcomed me as a newborn child, in the sky. My lunar birthday falls four days before Autumn festival, which has a full moon. Four days before Mid-Autumn festival it is less than full. It doesn't bother me that my moon isn't full. My solar birthday, the first of October, marks a particular angle of the sun at its highest point in the day in a season. No-one but a calendar can see it. My lunar birthday, 11th of the 8th month, I know can expect the same incomplete moon, maybe orange, maybe white, maybe yellow, maybe blue, hanging on less than full in the sky year in and year out of my life. That is my moon. The moon of my birth.
After 3am I know that moon would have set. All that would remain is Orion, a visitor to my sky. I've only seen it this once in the three years in Guangzhou. I can only savour in this. The grim moon gone; the hunter rises; this early in the morning; after the guests have left; after the party; on the day; of the same moon; on the day I was born; I type and live here; in the distant city of Guangzhou,