For the fourth-month moon showers have, and the mica on the side of the rock has shine, glisten like that sleek lick of damp left behind by a snail. Or tumble of spume on sand as the tide pulls back and considers its gleam. Or the rim of clean glass. The way an old dog’s eye becomes a lantern out of the dark yard. Dime spilled from a pocket. Or a pearl swaddled in silken flesh still inside the shell.…