The moon, waxing and waning, hovers over the field.
The messages from you, for which I pine, are sometimes clear, sometimes obscure, sometimes in riddle.
The half moon still lights the night. Not all moons are full. Even diminished they spur wonder.
Let me hear even the half messages, the obscured messages. Let me be grateful for even the new moon, invisibly dark.
(Letter #3,743)