It is especially nice when the rain stops and the clouds break up on a night when the moon is nearly full. Not only is there the shifting light and shadow of the clouds to watch, but everything on the ground glistens with the lingering moisture. The moonlight shone through the translucent yellow leaves of the mulberry tree, and fell among the wet leaves scattered around the lawn, so that the entire scene sparkled, each raindrop its own small lamp. The black pavement was streaked with moonlight, and the night was full of the sound of water dripping from the pines. But the clearing sky brought an even deeper cold than has prevailed on recent nights. It could be an icy winter that approaches.
Another gray day, followed by a night of dim, shrouded moonlight. It looks as though there might be fog. I enjoy a foggy night, especially when the moon is full, and the landscape is washed with mysterious light, the bony branches of autumnal trees looming from the gray, like palimpsests of ancient tales written in some lost script, emerging on a gray page. The chill air grows dank and rich with scents of decaying leaves and wet wood and damp earth, and I breathe the heaviness until it feels as though I am standing amid the wispy exhalations of a throng of ghosts.