Observations of a night-shift Milk Maid

I took a moment to listen to the lackadaisical whippoorwills. Their sweet, monotonous call was the only thing that betrayed their hiding places from under the cloak of dusk.
There was hardly a cloud in the sky as the moon rose brightly on the dark earth. What few stars that were sure enough, to compete with the waxing moon, shone dimly around the horizon's edge. I wondered, in my ignorance, just how far the moon's eerie light stretched. I imagined that it was beaming down upon all my beloved friends and the ones that I hold dearest.
I was curious as to how such a steady figure in the heavens, could contend with the lazy evening. How it could patiently await for the unpunctual night to arrive, later and later as the summer solstice drew near, I did not know.
The crickets, who had been out in the early evening, had long since risen up in chorus; each cricket to his own syncopated beat.
On the fragrant breeze were damp earthy smells one could not find anywhere but beyond the limits of a foggy city.
As the moon climbed higher into the indigo sky, I could hear a small gathering of coyotes sing. They crept from their posts in the benevolent forest of pines to offer their tribute to the almost-crescent-less brilliance of the moon.
Dark hills arose in defiance to gravity, giving birth to a jagged line separating Earth from Heaven.
I beheld the marvelous night.