I sit by the window and take the journal.
Orlando just left and I decide to write something about the light.
This place by the window looks like a perfect place to write.
The moon shines against the oak tree.
The glow of the moon makes the bark striped.
The stripes vibrate, ripple.
They move under the stars, under the light of the moon.
The shadows of the branches grow on the grass,
spreading wider and wider.
It looks like a dance, nightly ballet.
The glow spreads across the yard,
little grains of sand
sparkle like diamonds.