A young man, no more than twelve years of age, sits on the beach. The moon is full, and by its light the kid scribbles furiously in the sand. Occasionally he looks up at the moon, and loses himself in the beauty of the sight. But as soon as he turns to the sand to record it, the feeling escapes him.
So impassioned is the young poet, and so loud the sea, that he does not hear the footsteps of a man walking down to the shore. The man is, perhaps, thrice the younger's age, maybe more, and no where near as lovely. People tell him it is his nose — it is not hooked enough to be called either proud or aquiline. Rather than remain unremarkable and thus not detract from the rest of him, his nose impiously commands the full attention of any who see him. But it is dark, and we shall speak of his nose no more.
—Haven't you gone home, son, with the rest of the children?
The kid is startled, and drops his makeshift pen. He hastly stands up, being careful to shuffle his feet over the scrawl next to him.
—Oh! I'm sorry, I thought everyone was asleep. Everyone drank so much that I thought even an ox would have been drowsy.
—Alas, poor boy, I am no ox.
—Oh, I didn't mean that you were, sir. I meant that if an ox had drank as much as everyone else did, the ox would be fast asleep and snoring.
—Was there an ox there? I didn't see one.
—No, there wasn't, but--
—Boy, you shouldn't lie to your elders like that. Now run along home.
The boy stumbles away clumsily, feeling very foolish. His elder glaces down at what remained of the fragment.
—... like a pearl on the waves... Wait, kid, come back. What is this?
The boy blinks and runs back, desparate to cover the traces of his labour. He tries to brush out the marks, but the man holds back his hand.
—Boy, you've done nothing to be ashamed of, you hear? I just asked a question. What were you writing?
—T-t-there was a man at the party... he was s-singing like that, and I t-t-thought it was very pretty...
—So you sought to imitate him?
The kid was confused. Was the man mad at him, or not? He didn't know the man's name, but he thought he had seen the man at the quarry, cutting stone.
—I... guess? He sang about the moon, and how beautiful she was, and I thought if I did the same, then I could share the feeling I get when I look at the moon with other people. It is so pretty, and people think it's a fine thing. I want to be a poet when I grow up, just like him.
—But kid, think carefully. When a poet sings verse, does he describe things as they are, or as they aren't?
—As they are, or were, I guess.
—You're saying there's no difference between a horse and a song about a horse?
The boy frowned. Why was this old man asking him so many questions?
—I guess the difference is that you can't ride the horse the poet sings about.
—Isn't it a bit like the shadow of a horse? I mean, isn't a song about a horse much like the shadow of a horse, in that you can tell that it is supposed to resemble a horse, but that it isn't actually a horse?
The boy is silent for a long time, thinking about this question.
—Yes, it is like that.
—And which is better? A real horse, or a horse's shadow?
—It would be fine to have a real horse, but anyone can see a horse's shadow. A real horse is obviously better.
—Then, kid, why should you want to be a poet, when all you do as a poet is play around with shadows of things, when the thing itself is far better?
At this, the old man smiled, and the moonlight reflected in his eyes. He turned back to the house, calling back to the boy over his shoulder.
—If you want to keep peddling shadows, m'boy, I won't stop you. But if you want the thing itself, I've heard of a way in which such a thing might be found...
And with that, the man walks back inside. The young boy stares at the perfect, round whiteness of the moon, and for a second he was reminded of his teacher's geometry lessons. Some part of him grasps at the words the man had said. The waves crash inevitably on the shore, and by the time they had consumed the boy's poem, he had already left after the man.
And he followed him for the rest of his life. | 
