As the moon is waxing, I'd say it's half full. In a couple of weeks, as it wanes, it will be half empty. Half full or half empty, it's still a summer moon and hangs above pines unstirred by the vague night breezes. Now and then the movement of the air manages to coax a slight rustle from the oak leaves, but the pines are like statues of trees. In a few days June's appalling heat will give way to July's appalling heat, but the trees will remain unmoved.
The trumpet vine has produced a plethora of bright blossoms, orange tipped with red, suitable to the torrid season, but the jasmine flowers rapidly wither, browned by the sun and the lack of water. Soon the nights will smell only of the drying grass and the desiccated earth. I'll miss the jasmine. The full moon will find no whiteness to illuminate, but only the green leaves.