Bright

[rejectomorph]

The spring moon is stalked by Jupiter. Both have now withdrawn behind the screen of pines, leaving the cerulean sky oddly bereft. It is very cold tonight. I have heard the cries of nighthawks and the deep hoots of an owl. The bright moon must have made for good hunting. Even I feel terribly exposed, now that the clouds have vanished. I imagine small creatures scurrying from shadow to shadow, keeping to the longest grass, seeking rooted shelters. Maybe they can make their way back to safe burrows now that shadow has engulfed everything, but already the east is paling as morning twilight begins. The nights are truncated. I miss the darkness.