Night

It is night time, dark and quiet. Tonight, like every night, before we settle to sleep and dream we walk around the small village where we live. We walk always clockwise as withershins might bring bad luck.
And tonight the sky is bleached of stars by the bright glory of the bone white full moon.
Moonshadows are long. They follow our footsteps. All is quiet, just the barest whisper of the sea on the distant sand. No wind. Not a breath. Moonlight paints the leaves with silver. At night all cats are gray but on a night such as this we shine with the latent light of the setting sun and glow a pale fire colour held in our fur.
Mice chatter in the bushes and ruins of houses where people once lived. Careless mice. Moths brush past our whiskers, just a sigh of movement, pursued by the winged ones of night, the bats.
You can almost hear the few bright stars that still shine through the moonlight.
Soon there will be shooting stars. Soon it will be August, and we will sit in the garden at night and watch the stars fall from the heavens, as they do every year.
The night belongs to us.
And still we wish for wings.