The moon hangs low and yellow, in its early age of candle light. She sits in the dark corner of her yard, hidden by her house. Wrapped tightly in a huge bundle of blanket, puffing smoke into the air. Her eyes sting, but her hands finally relax. She feels alone with the moon. Warm in her cocoon of blanket and night.

Watch her eyes as they blank, then focus as they follow you drive past. Then blank, then shrink as they sting from her cigar.

She closes her eyes to rest them, as the night sets into her. She opens them to find the moon has swung up high and shines white. Entering the stage of incandescence and florescence. She blows smoke to shade herself from the brightness, howling softly in protest.