The squeaking of the rusty swing in the deserted play area of the garden is a note foreign, intruding upon the sonance of the night.
The light zephyr carries with it secrets whispered to it by the frangipanis, as it blows through their flowering tree, loosening a blossom. The flower surrenders itself and is given a gentle lift by the breeze before it collapses onto the cropped grass. A bat, almost camouflaged in the dark, flutters out from a tree and disappears into the night.
The moon is almost full, sailing in her ascent to her cherished spot in the sky from where she reigns as the hours pass on. The clouds move with her, guarding her jealously. They claim her beauty for their own, refusing to share it with the world below. She peeks out shyly from behind an opening in the clouds that obstinately remain before her, a glimmer of her iridescence illuminating what little of the garden it falls upon, making the leaves glisten and outlining the empty playground, silent, but for a frog croaking harshly under the slide.
Finally, the wind intercedes and nudges the clouds, reminding them that their journey lies onward, elsewhere. Reluctantly they float on, leaving bare a jewelled sky, revealing the glowing orb in all her glory to beam down on earth.
The garden lies still in her luminescence, unmoved but for an observer who has been watching the transpiration, swaying wordlessly on the rusty swing.