Cherry is the smallest rock in the bunch, but it helps that they are always sitting on top of Watermelon, who is arguably the largest member of the family when you consider length, width, height, weight and smoothness. Watermelon is smooth, and everyone is cool with them being the extravagant gem, because diversity is hip to this freshly knit ensemble.
Yes, as of today, they officially—started a band! The whimsical group of singer-songwriters hasn't settled on a moniker just yet because they are hyperfocused on their earthly docket, and naturally, all the pertinent issues are decided by a cosmic feat and an enthusiastic show of hands, or in the case of the metallic outliers, a flaunting of infinity fingers that express their oft knotty positions. “In due time,” is a favorite mantra of the assemblage, who despite their illusion of stasis, love a good frolic, so it is not unusual to see the Gang of Twelve (currently in the running for: Best Band Name Thus Far) sporting natty pairs of well worn Dr. Martens when duty calls, unanimous in their delight for proper foot care as they zigzag around the globe, celebrating their fetish-of-the-day along the endless elevations of Gaia.
Despite this luxury of total freedom, the band prefers to be chauffeured by Sun and Moon, who live at the tippy top of creation, with a fabulous view, and coincidentally—just got married! Forever linked on April, 8th, the one-love newlyweds tickle themselves with symbolism, so the matrimonial date was predestined with April being the fourth month of the Gregorian, and four times two (Moon and Sun) equals eight, and the year, two thousand twenty four, was enchantingly two plus (or times) two equals four, and if that wasn't enough juju, Aries was the first sign in the zodiac.
Alas, not everything was auspicious to Sun and Moon. If you were introduced to them at a party, the couple would invariably let you know that it was perfectly acceptable to refer to them as Moon and Sun, or, Sun and Moon. "Mix it up, have fun!" they would say, in unison. However, it was widely understood that when speaking about them publicly, they insisted on being presented as a pair. But they weren't sticklers about this bit of kink, nor would they call you out if you neglected the courtesy, instead, you would be schooled in a more subtle way. The way of the village. A way that did not require their presence.
Moon and Sun passionately trusted the band to educate and enlighten. To spread the word. Or was it a feeling? This tangible vs. ethereal discussion was topical and also on their global short-list. The idea of whether it needed to be said, and if so, by whom? They were a lovingly thoughtful friend circle so they respectfully put a pin in it. Nevertheless, if a neighbor innocently said, "Sun, when will the burgers be ready?" There would be a hush, nearly inconceivable, merely lasting a second, and then, Cherry would tip-toe with a mild sense of urgency towards the wafting mojo in the room—which was you. You were the mojo. That certain someone who unexpectedly, or unknowingly, or perhaps through sheer laziness, was divinely repentant. And you felt it, immediately. The second it came out of your mouth. Why you even finished the sentence was mind boggling. Were you that hungry? And Cherry would look you in the eye, because they could, because they were sitting on top of Watermelon, and they would whisper with that disconcerting Yoda tenderness, "Sun and Moon," which was chased by a fleeting scent of magnolia, and then again, alternatively, "Moon and Sun," suspended in air, holding you in their lingering gaze until the words were inked upon your tongue.
The nascent collective worked as a unit. They were rock. They were metal. They were united in song, with perfect pitch, the epitome of Om.
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