The Witching Hour. Ah, the witching hour. My favorite time. A point of peace. Most are in bed, and the noise of daily life has abated. Replaced by the gentile tranquility of night. The loudest noise being the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, a noise heightened by their dry fall nature. The smells fill their air, cool and crisp. If but for some more moon light, it'd be perfect. The harvest moon the most luxurious of all the full moons being a special occasion at this time. Tonight a simple waning crescent, a sliver, a wisp of the silver lunar glow. the last grasp before it slips into New, to be reborn from the dark. Ah, a lone cricket chirps it's tune. The nights musician. I long for the night, for the full moon light, for the witching hour's silence. I seek it out like a moth to a flame. Drawn in by it's simplicity and scent. It's enveloping atmosphere. It is the perfect hour. Hidden far away from the harshness of the midday, and the gray of twilight. My heart belongs here. The only thing missing is the accompaniment of another. A beat of unison with my chosen one. Somewhere out there yet to be found. The sole missing element to this perfect picture. the absent puzzle peace. But all is not lost, for I know. That someday I will share this moment. And then my favorite hour will truly be perfect.
