At dusk, the full moon is a lantern hung in the trees, the slender pine trees against the sky like black grill-like slivers over the source of light. In a nearby tree I notice a vague and unfamiliar shape. A moment later the shape eerily passes before me in a straight line, in utter silence, and disappears towards the moon: either an owl or a bat.
At dawn, the rising sun, further south than its nocturnal counterpart, tries to etch a like presence, but it is too diffuse and awash with reddish tints that drip everywhere. For a moment the intensity of light is not dissimilar to that of the moon, but only for a moment. Soon the brash sun is stumbling forth, forcing its way onto the stage called sky.
journal of reflections by the resident of the Hermitary