Morrigan's A Private Moon

The avenue had grown noisy with late traffic, so returning through the garden gate was an easy decision. Inside the glass conservatory, the night settled into a cool stillness scented with damp soil. I vaulted onto the broad cedar potting bench where an old brass jeweler's loupe sat beside a shallow dish of smooth river stones. Rather than leaving the glass flat, I propped its heavy frame against a dark quartz pebble, angling the thick lens toward the overhead panes. The pale moonlight caught the glass instantly, projecting an immaculate, luminous ring across the dark grain. Considerably better company than the crowded streets.