living my own unpublished novel: a torn page

My last night was much like one I'd written of years ago, in one of the many unpublished novels that sit here, quiet.
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            In the family room she slowly navigates toward the two-piece chaise lounge and moves it, one piece at a time, toward the window.  Right up against the window, facing the moon, which now hangs unobstructed in the after-hours sky—a perfect half, an orange color — amidst the vague white constellations.  She had always wished for a hole in the roof of her house so that she could lie, in any weather, beneath the moon, but this, tonight, is a good enough solution—the window up, the night blowing in, the mystery of the house across the street.  She settles back into the thin, sleek leather cushion and twines her hands together at her waist, the posture of prayer.  She holds her eyes open as long as she can, and then she closes them but doesn’t sleep and doesn’t dream, just listens.  There is the soprano pulse of crickets near.  A mole in leaves, making for cover.  Bird call, and also bird wing.  Perhaps the snuffing out of a candle now, on a table, in a house.  She can differentiate the sounds, but how much better is it, after all, to let them play, orchestral.