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 moons rise.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 become 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 been a profound thing.