The almost perfectly round moon has popped up above the mountains, its tangerine face gazing across woodlands from deepening blue sky. It is, indeed, a face tonight. The gray "seas" form two eyes, the rettrousse nose, and the mouth -- more a smirk than a smile -- of the Man in the Moon familiar from illustrations in Victorian children's books. It will be full tomorrow, the first full moon of this summer, but it's near enough tonight. I can't see it from my southern window, as the roofline of the house next door obscures it, but from the brown back lawn, from which the day's heat still rises, I see it framed by the branches of the pines. It seems oddly weightless hanging there. It reminds me of a politician, chubby and bland, his speech void of any real meaning, his expression a carefully crafted illusion. I am annoyed that the false world of human ambition has thus intruded into my thoughts, displacing the cosmic delight of moonrise with so distasteful a fancy. I've read too much news, today.