For most of the night, the moon remained concealed, except for brief moments when the clouds thinned or parted. It was Gypsy Rose Moon, teasing more than stripping. The colors which the moonlight lent its diaphanous costumes were delightful. The border of swirling clouds would go from red to mauve to violet to deep purple and at last back to gray, and the moon would vanish until the next cloud-rent would pass its position. Finally, the clouds withdrew fully, and the naked light streamed down through a forest slightly hazed with lingering condensation, so that moonbeams were revealed between the shadows of pine branches, and the leaves of oaks were bathed in a glow reminiscent of drifting strands of spider silk. Too soon, the now-cleared sky began to pale, and even with the faintest glow of the sun arcing westward, the moonlight was diminished. The emerging world of detail is less conducive to the fanciful delights night holds. It's just as well that I must sleep, as the moon fades long before it sets.