The moon, since nightfall the companion of clouds, was about to settle among the pines when an unexpected fog began to drift through the woodland. Night was then filled with ghostly blue light, for a while, and the woods gradually deprived of the chance to be silhouetted as the fog thickened. The declining moon vanished while yet in the sky. Having obscured its source of light, the drifting vapor itself was obscured, and from the dense dark which fell came the hooting of the owls. By the time the fog had dispersed, the moon had set, its only trace being a faint glow cast on the high clouds. The owls remained.
Sunday Verse
Sunyata
by Octavio Paz
At the limits
tinder
of charred space
the tree's
yellow ascension
Agate whirlwind
presence consumed
in a weightless glory
Hour after hour unleaving
the day
now nothing
but a stalk
of scattering vibrations
And amid such
indifferent bliss
it sprouts
identical intact
the day
The same that flows
through my hands
the same
ember on my eyelids
The day The tree
-translated by Charles Tomlinson 
