The moon is beautiful tonight.

It's wrapped up in its enigma, a halo and a yellow-and-white overcoat. When I walk home I look up at it and it holds my attention. It lends itself easily to poetry. Or to something that is special. A thought, a feeling, a memory of a time when you fell asleep in the moonlight, your fingers laced through another set of fingers. 

I wait and look at it for a few minutes. The houses are all quiet. The people are pursuing their night-time activities in silence. 

There's just me and it's an interesting moment, of being alone and insignificant yet one with a sudden surge of hope about everything.