A moon this bright reflects from every shiny surface -- telephone cables, insulators, chrome on parked cars, the glass and metal of my non-functioning decorative carriage lamps. The oak leaves glow, too, and the pine needles, so all the night is glittering and glowing. A moon this low sends long shadows across the ground and up the walls, so the night is like a late afternoon in a melancholy afterworld, where all is pale light and indistinct shadow, and breezes are like passing ghosts who whisper and sigh. The low full moon of summer suits my mood, or induces it -- no matter which. I let my thoughts stretch out on the dark lawn like a newly laid out corpse. A night such as this is like a lucid dream in which there is no need to breathe and from which there is no need to wake. I look up at wan stars and wait for the moon to pass beyond sight, and drink in the cooled air and the quiet. However much I might will the night to stay, the earth will turn away from my desire and expose the sun, and thus itself, and send me into another day.