Last night I couldn't sleep; here's what I wrote in my journal:
It's 1:00 a.m., and stuffiness from allergies and the last of a summer cold is keeping me awake. Earlier tonight, the Young Man drew my attention to the full moon: hanging precisely between the tops of the dogwood and the horse chestnut, its burnt-orange disk glowed like a living coin. Now it sails high above me, soft white diffused into a misty gleaming, lighting the darkness like a miniature sun. The mockingbird in the dogwood sings to it, a fascinating repertoire of a dozen calls or more. Maybe I should play it some Wagner.