Without the gauzy filter of clouds, the winter moon this close to full brings a stark light until late night when it is at last veiled by the trees. Then, it appears to grow larger, and becomes a white blaze silhouetting the intricate maze of branches and pine needles as it slowly drops from sight. Tonight, just a thin layer of cloud lingered in the west, so that the moon was doubly veiled, and the softness of its late light was dispersed like a luminous fog so that the forest glimmered and glowed, and I half expected to hear the music of some woodland feast come drifting on the cold breeze. But, so late, even the frogs had ceased to croak, and all I heard was the breeze itself, softly playing the pines. I would like to have lingered, allowing the enchantment of the scene to seduce me, but the cold drove me back into the still house and the warm silence. The feast has departed, in any case, following the swift passage of the moon, appearing among the valley orchards, the pines of the further hills, the wooded glades of the coastal mountains, moving at last from the foamy shore seaward, where it now shimmers the slow Pacific swells to dazzle the night watch of isolated ships, like the visible form of a siren's song.