I sat in my chair by the window last night with a glass of wine, and when I looked up from my book, I saw the moon hanging low in the blackness. It would set soon. I went out in my bare feet after dark, gingerly feeling my way out of fear of stepping on dying yellow jackets — we had a nest under the stairs that we exterminated — so I could see the moon in the full of the sky, without walls around me. The air was cool and crisp, the night air of late summer, soon to be fall. Insects chirred their song in the darkness, and I wondered how much longer the evening will be filled with their sounds.

To the west, over the shadowy tops of deciduous trees that will soon lose their leaves, in a valley of sky between mountain domes, the tilted crescent nestled in a light pillow of clouds. It felt cozy. I felt invited to climb under the covers in my own bed and snuggle in with a good book.

I felt moved somehow, like the moon is different and more accessible, and maybe a little more magical, as we enter the fall season. It says I’m here for your quiet, your going within. Night will be crisp and clear and dark, and there will be more of it; I’ll be here shining, a sliver or a sickle or a full glowing globe in an inky sky. Walk with me.