Just now the full moon behind bare branches calls me out to the cold back yard, a morning surprise. I am at a chapter of life when I have learned to appreciate and savor the bits that my father loved; the wonder of nature and steaming pots of soup on the stove. I finally caught up to him, the stage of development when a full moon on a winter morning at sunrise will make me search for slippers and a blanket to run outdoors in the crisp darkness. I grab my camera and attempt to capture the temporal scene, my snapping producing delightful smears of impressionistic light and color, as if the moon were emanating blended watercolor, bleeding and mixing in a spreading pool. Not merely reflecting the sunlight on the opposite horizon, but creating it. I fail to capture the full atmosphere of the deep blue and now lightening canopy with a single star peeping through, the bare deciduous branches holding the golden moon in a woven basket. I fail to capture the little gleaming lights through our windows, the Christmas tree still glowing long after gifts are enjoyed and packed away, and the kitchen light showing me where I left off writing and preparing french toast. On the other side of the fence, the sun grows wide, the moon slides lower, and I realize that soon my stealthy adventure in pajamas is about to be discovered, when neighbors warm their cars for another day of work.