It's a performance that refuses to be ignored. Bright like high beams through my blinds, the moon is so proud and determined to be the center of attention. Perhaps it's a curtain call. It knows that the days are numbered before the grey half of the year puts odds against crisp, clear nights, making its spotlight a Soft White bulb at best. I only looked out the window at it for a moment, but I could've sworn I saw it blush knowing that crowds of arm-locked couples, old men, and strollered children all are pointing and commenting on what a perfect night it is.