The bright pearl was caught in skeletal fingers of oaks. The light felt thick, pooling on the lawn like a luminous drool. Shadows didn’t lengthen, they writhed, detaching from objects. Owls flew backwards, hooting sorries. Down the lane, Mrs. Armoir’s petunias were observed secreting to slugs. The air tasted faintly of the forgotten. This moon intruded, rearranging the familiar before the dawn scrubbed it all clean.