Brighter Still

The moon will be full tomorrow. Already, it is crisp and dazzling, and all night the dense shadows crawled by as breezes sang in the pines, accompanied by hooting owls. When at last the sharp light was softened by the screen of ponderosas to the northwest, I sat for a while and listened to the various sounds. For a long time I was puzzled by a strange high pitched screech which came form the north. I thought perhaps it was an exotic species of night bird. Finally, I realized it was a breeze blown branch scraping against something- a rain gutter, perhaps. It was a bit disappointing. Fancies of a visitor from some distant place were dissipated by a mere mechanical explanation. But I have no intention of letting that explanation keep the astonishing avians of my imagination from populating my dreams.

Beginning

Silver-blue and deep gray drifts of cloud soften the bright moon, now escaped from the tangled woods. The late sun was made moderate as well, veiled by this gathering aerial damp which evening light then gilded and, finally, set aflame. The mild air now tingles with the promise of rain. The birds, having enjoyed their frolic through temperate days, now settle into sleep with a final rustling of bushes that, sometime soon, will resound with the beat of raindrops. The green landscape is darkened out of color, and all attention is called to that slow tumult of sky where moon and clouds and wind collaborate on a motile painting composed of dust and water and light, the prelude to some drama as ancient as matter itself, but always newly formed. I must watch.