Tonight, the moon didn’t rise boldly or flood the landscape with light. Instead, it teased me—slipping in and out of view, ducking behind thick, rolling clouds like it was playing a slow game of hide and seek.
The sky was heavy, layered with clouds that moved just enough to keep things interesting. Every so often, the moon would peek through, its light diffused and dulled as if it didn’t want to be fully seen. Those brief moments of glow were enough, though—just enough light to remind me it was still there, even when hidden.
There’s something comforting about nights like this. The darkness doesn’t feel empty; it feels alive. The clouds add depth and motion, and the moon becomes less of a spotlight and more of a quiet companion, waiting for its turn to shine again.
Standing outside, I notice how the hills fade into silhouette, how the sky steals my attention away from everything else. It’s easy to lose track of time, watching the clouds drift, waiting for the next glimpse of moonlight. No big show, no brilliance—just a calm, steady rhythm that feels right for a cold, quiet night.
Tonight wasn’t about clarity or brightness. It was about subtlety. About slowing down long enough to appreciate the moments in between—the pauses, the shadows, the soft glow that comes and goes. The moon didn’t need to dominate the sky to make its presence felt. It simply reminded me that even when hidden, some things are always there.