The frosted cobblestone street gleams in the moonlight. I step aside not to break the honeycomb of small vintage mirrors echoing the throbbing stars above. The moon smiles on me, like a gold-toothed gypsy about to sweet-talk me out of the last dime in my pocket. The wind is salty, scratching my copper bearded cheeks, howling through my pockets and my empty stomach. No soul on the street, but flailing birch trees shedding their ivory bark in whispered resignation. I am but a beggar. There are holes in the soles of my boots and my soldier coat has seen better days. But I got a silver tongue and before the frost is over I will coax that silver-dollar moon into my pocket.