The sky put on a nice display tonight. Clouds began to form just as the moon rose, and for a while they ran in narrow strips like foamy ripples on a dark lake. Later, they grew more dense and concealed the moon altogether, while diffusing its light to that perfect softness in which the familiar world is half seen, half remembered. It is with such light that I most enjoy slow walks, keeping my footfalls as soft as possible so as to hear any sound of movement other than my own. In such light there can be surprises, looming from the dimness, but tonight I found none. There were only the frogs and the night birds, who kept to their realms as I to mine. Later still, the clouds fled and the moon cast a cold light, and the trees cast harsh shadows, and I returned to the house. It now strikes me as strange that I unconsciously chose to write of this night in the past tense. I am unable to make it present in my mind. I wonder why that is so? I am feeling a certain detachment, the source of which I can't discern.
Already, a pale light is entering the sky and the stars have dimmed. In a few minutes, the cacophony of crows will begin. I will be glad when the clocks are changed, buying me (for a while) another hour of darkness in the mornings. I prefer the light to linger in the evening, not push its way into what ought to still be my night.
Over there, another of my new icons, this one a photograph of a landscape in the Sutter Buttes. Though they are but fifty or so miles distant, I have never been there. I'd like to go.