A full moon, round and plump, with a faint brown hue reminiscent of burnt sugar, sails over a dark blue china sky. It lies placid and tranquil, like a poem from Shirshendu—though certainly not the singed-toast moon he describes. This moon belongs to soft early spring nights, moist with promise, or, even better, to crisp, cold winter nights when its steam mists the blue china. A cold crescent of stainless steel descends, squeezing, and slow golden honey oozes out of the moon—the honey of notun gur.





