With moonrise, the arachnid shadows of bare trees began their slow creep across the lawn. Drops of rain left by the evening drizzle caught the light so that the grass was covered by hundreds of tiny pinpoint moons. Other drops fell from the trees, less frequently as night passed, like metronomes gradually slowing to a stop. Very late, when the moon was westering, a large owl alighted on an upper branch of a bare oak. I stood at a spot from which I could see the bird silhouetted against the bright orb. I expected to hear hoots, but they never came, and the owl finally flew away with a loud fluttering of wings. Soon, the town will emerge from darkness, and I will close it out, remaining unaware of its daily activities. I intend to dream of that owl.
Pastel house blanched by the moonlight line the street, blacked windows suggesting the lightless rooms void of occupants, or beds piled with winter blankets wrapping sleepers whose dreams I might imagine floating like the puffs of smoke which lately drifted from the now cold chimneys. My night world greets me with serenity, the day's croaking crows and twittering wrens gone to roost, the soft stars unobtrusive in their distance, the trees stilled from their earlier dance induced by the evening breeze. Now and then I hear a distant car navigating the nearly deserted roads, but nothing else stirs, not even a dog to bark at some passing phantom of the chilled air. In a while, the nightly breeze will return to coax a soft song from the pines, but this is the silent hour, and I walk to measure it with the soft sound of my footsteps, which only I can hear.