The thin smile of the moon was hanging lopsided in the darkening sky, just a little way above the pale orange glow that rose from the western horizon. The twiggy ends of the bare oak branches stood out against the darkening blue sky. Suddenly, I heard birds calling. From the south, eleven swans came flying low over the treetops. They passed in front of the moon, not 200 feet from me, dark against the evening glow, long necks outstretched, wings flapping with a sound like pillows being fluffed. I thought I saw the tips of the pine trees flutter with the wind of their flight. The scene was perfect. I tried to will time to stop, that I might study this picture as I would an ink drawing, but the birds swiftly passed to the north, the color drew down from the west, the moon brightened.
Now, the night is full of a pungent plant scent I can't quite identify. It must be the recent false spring, decaying in the returning winter chill.