The moon has turned full, and with perfect timing the clouds have re-gathered to drape it with softening gauze, or conceal it behind their massed banks whose edges then glow as with an inner light that plays across the mottled sky like blurs of slow lightning, making it seem as though time is adrift, no longer rushing but moving gradually as would some stately ship becalmed on the currents of a windless and boundless sea. From time to time the drift of clouds will catch in some moonlit part a flush of deep translucent rose that swirls about some darker mass like thin smoke lit by the fire from which it issued. Below, the streets and houses lie silent, and all the woodlands and fields, as though transfixed by this calm spectacle of sky. The softest of silent breezes brushes my skin with a reminder of the deep winter chill, but leaves the pines unstirred. They raise their grace in immobile silhouettes, pointing out the few pale stars which flash in small, brief clearings that appear among the clouds. Serene hours pass while the continental drift of dust and vapor overhead describes ages and ages of change in ephemeral reflection of whirling earth.