The light of the full moon fell through a chilly air tonight. I wore a sweater as I walked through the lace of light that covered the street beneath the trees. Whatever has of late been in the air to turn the moon red is now gone, and it is once again a cool white against the cloudless deep blue of night. I felt no urge to howl. Instead, I listened to my footsteps crunching on the pavement, and played songs in my head. Though the full moon has been thought to drive some to madness, for me it has always been like a tranquilizer, but one which does not diminish alertness. Unlike Sylvia Plath, who thought the moon not kind, I find it merely aloof, but gentle, and in it's gentle light the night grows soft and sweet. Washed in moonlight, I am calm again, and the world is cleansed of commonplace dust. The moon is my sauna.