Gauzy clouds scatter moonlight, and soften shadows. Hours are a drifting of vague gardens, now paving the vacant street, now painting a patch of wall, now vanishing among trees, as the moon glides west. Imperceptibly, the tableaux of light shift, but the world grows less and less bright as the night draws on and the looming pines engulf the glow. A breeze makes the few remaining beams flicker through shivering needles, the sinking white fire banked, the darkened forest floor home to a few sparkling sprites of light soon to dart away. A moment of darkness only, before the eastern clouds begin to glow and cast the growing light of day earthward, waking the birds who slept all night, oblivious to the stately dance for which their music was not required.