In the moonlight

Around midnight the clouds parted and the moon, shining brightly, flooded the silent night with a ghostly radiance. The brief squall of early evening had left a few puddles, which now shone in the moonlight. The trees, still wet, gave off a soft scent whenever a faint breeze rustled their leaves. And the lonely roads wound around the sleeping houses before disappearing at a distance. Occasionally, the shrill cry of a night bird pierced the silence, and then everything was quiet again.

A swarm of fireflies played under the shadow of the bougainvillea bush, their tiny bodies blinking rhythmically. On the edge of the veranda the money plant crept silently, its shadows making strange patterns on the moonlit wall. And near the closed door lay a modest pair of mud-caked slippers, solitary in the joy of flowing moonlight.

A few wispy clouds, soaked in moonlight, still wandered about. The stars, however, were outshone by the bright moon. And the moon, alive with its blue veins and pockmarks, looked like a forlorn artist, sad amongst all the beauty it has created.

It's understandable why they say it's not safe to roam around on such moonlit night and gaze at the hypnotic moon. You run the risk of being a lunatic.