There is a hill near my home that I often climb at night. The noise of the city is a far-off murmur. In the hush of dark I share the cheerfulness of crickets and the confidence of owls. But it is the drama of the moonrise that I come to see. For that restores in me a quiet and clarity that the city spends too freely.
From this hill I have watched many moonsrises. Each one had its own mood.
There have been broad，confident harvest moons in autumn;shy, misty moons in spring;lonely, winter moons rising into the utter silence of an ink-black sky and smoke-smudged orange moons over the dry fields of summer. Each，like fine music, excited my heart and then calmed my soul.
Moon gazing is an ancient art. To prehistoric hunters the moon overhead was as unerring as heartbeat. They knew that every 29 days it becomes full-bellied and brilliant, then sickened and died，and then was reborn. They knew the waxing moon appeared larger and higher overhead after each succeeding sunset. They knew the waning moon rose later each night until it vanished in the sunrise. To have understood the moon's patterns from experience must have been a profound thing.
But we，who live indoors，have lost contact with the moon. The glare of street lights and the dust of pollution veil the night sky. Though men have walked on the moon，it grows less familiar. Few of us can say when the moon will rise tonight.
Still, it tugs at our minds. If we unexpectedly encounter the full moon，huge and yellow over the horizon，we are helpless but to stare back at its commanding presence. And the moon has gifts to bestow upon those who watch..... At moonrise, as we slow our minds to the pace of the heavens, enchantment steals over us. We open the vents of feeling and exercise parts of our minds that reason locks away by day. We hear, across the distances, murmurs of ancient hunters and see a new the visions of poets and lovers of long ago.