The chickens were nervous. Pistachio understood. The moon was too bright.

That was all it was. The moon was too bright. 

He stared up at its blank white face, squinting a bit. Despite its ominously smooth look, any minute now it would yield to the sun. Of course it would. It already had, once. 

There was no reason for it to be late, not with Celestia back in charge. She had raised the moon and its dark prisoner—[i]former[/i] dark prisoner—for countless generations before him. And according to the royal proclamation that a Wonderbolt had posted in the town square after the long night ended, everything was back to normal. That was all there was to it. He trusted Celestia like he trusted the sun to ri… 

No, bad analogy. 

Pistachio thought for a moment. Like he trusted the seasons to turn.

Pistachio stepped back from the edge of the porch, glancing through the farmhouse window at the grandfather clock in the living room. Five fifty-seven a.m. Real soon now. Three more minutes. 

Some hens trilled. A rooster clucked. Pistachio stared at the clock face as the languid sway of the pendulum propelled the second hand upward, then across. Two minutes.

Pistachio turned at the clip-clop of hooves on packed earth—his son plodding back from the orchard. Pecan's head was turned, staring back over his shoulder at the too-bright moon suspended over the horizon. 

"Chickens are nervous," Pecan said, slowing as he neared the porch.

Pistachio took a long and silent breath, and tried to ignore their spreading trilling. "Two minutes now."

Pecan glanced at his sire and languidly walked up onto the porch next to him. "I was just gonna say the moon's too bright."

" 'Course," Pistachio said, turning away as his muzzle flushed. "Sun's gonna rise, you mark the Princess' words."

Pecan returned to staring at the moon.

" 'Course it will," he slowly said. "That sister o' hers has been [i]reformed[/i]."

"That's what she says," Pistachio said. And then, as he realized that hadn't come out with nearly the note of finality he had intended, he added, "What [i]Celestia[/i] says." Even that seemed insufficient, so he coughed and continued: "That's all we need."

They stared at the moon. Pistachio snuck another glance at the clock. One minute.

"[i]Hypothetically[/i]," Pecan said. "If it [i]didn't[/i]—it will, o' course, but if it [i]didn't[/i]—I reckon the Royal Guard might need some good, strong earth pony volunteers."

Pistachio frowned. "[i]Hypothetically,[/i]" he said, "if it didn't, yer military career would last exactly as long as it takes to charge at a lunatic alicorn."

"Proclamation says we ain't supposed to say that word," Pecan said, with a note of acid at the edge of his tone.

"Well, we're speakin' hypothetically," Pistachio said. "If the sun didn't rise, I reckon that's what she'd be. But it will, so she ain't."

Pecan thought for a bit. "True."

A breeze stirred leaves in the orchard. The poor, confused rooster crowed, a sound as sad and half-hearted as the pale light of the not-a-sun.

The ponies stared at it. Was it moving? It was. Maybe. No? It kept looking like it was moving, but it hadn't changed position against the few nearby stars it hadn't washed out.
 
"Any second now," Pistachio said, his heart pounding against his ribs.

"Sun'll rise," Pecan said tightly.

Pistachio glanced back at the clock. Six o'clock and eight seconds, and his heart stopped. He opened his mouth, turning toward his son—

Shadows shifted. The moon shivered, and lurched, and visibly, unmistakeably sank. 

The horizon brightened. The rooster crowed again, full-throated. Sunlight kissed the wall of the farmhouse. Pistachio let out a long, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and felt the light warm his skin. 

He'd have to go talk to the local pegasi. The night had to have been unseasonably cold for him to be shivering like this.

There was a snort next to him. "Clock's a bit fast, pa."

"Reckon so," Pistachio said. "But there's chores that need doin'."

Pistachio heard the sound of Pecan plodding back out to the orchard. "Reckon so."