No Hooters

The moon, just past full, has risen high enough to reach a large patch of thin clouds, and the whole east is glowing. The bare, tangled branches of the nearby oaks and the walnut tree are silhouetted against the light, and a few pines add their fuller shapes to the scene. The chilly air is perfectly still. I keep listening in hopes that an owl will hoot, but the only sound I hear is the frogs croaking. Too bad. It would be a perfect night to listen to owls.