When the Earth was very young, on a river flat in a glade between stands of fir trees, Punce Nin began digging. Stubby fingers raked at soil among strips of fragrant green. His nose twitched. His hand made contact with something, encircled the shuckable globe of it. He examined it, brushing away dirt and his thumb crinkled a wrapper that was thin as understanding.
Punce Nin had a granite face – knobbled skin, the sense of many things congealed. His thick lips stayed set apart and his dark eyes frowned as he peeled away the outer skin to find a pearlescent whiteness inside, crisp and self-hugging.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper, thought Punce Nin and he glanced to the sky, checking for holes in its reliable dome. It stared back at him, changeful yet the same. A slovenly cloud shifted to find better repose.
Written for Bjorn‘s Prosery prompt at dVerse We had to include the phrase “it is a moon wrapped in brown paper” from a poem “Valentine” by Carol Ann Duffy which I have yet to read. Looking forward to checking it out.