Small moon and sun on upper back

Back when the valley had only one sky, the sun was a loud, sweaty man who would not stop walking. He crossed the heavens at a run and never once looked down. The moon was a thin, quiet thing who came out after him, and she'd lie in the frost with her chin on the hills, counting the lamps as the farms put them out one by one. She was cold, the way only the lonely are cold, and nobody had ever thought to bring her a coat.

So one winter the sun did a thing he'd never done. He slowed at the very edge of the world, where the pass runs down into the snow, and he unhooked a single ray from his own bright hair and let it fall. It landed on the moon's shoulder like a spark on dry kindling. She didn't burn. She glowed. For a whole month she was the brightest thing in the sky, and the shepherds came out to stare and forgot to bring their sheep in.

Now, here's the part the travelling men never tell right. A ray given away is a ray gone. The sun had to walk slower after that, and the moon had to keep her light small so she wouldn't blind anyone, and that's why they never sit in the sky together for long. Every dawn you'll see him come up while she's still slipping down, and each one lets go a little of the other. Look close at the bottom of the sky before the cock crows and you'll find that ray still there, tucked between them, keeping them warm.

That's enough talk for one night. Drink up, and mind the stove, it's older than my grandmother and twice as temperamental.