I have still to retire to my bed, though the moon is well past high and its light fingers through the edges of the curtain. Walking home from the station earlier, fresh from my evening of work, the all-enclosing halo of the train’s interior lights shielded the moon from sight until I was out there, under the shadows of the bamboo grove and the buildings. And there it was, like an unwinking eye, the moon all swollen and cold, a white dagger to my surprise. When not dismissed as commonplace, the moon can whisper like a mountain, of slow skies and creaking trees, a falling dollop of indifference. Or a mirror. I stood and stared, not sure if I should stay or turn on home.