A June bug knocks against the window, and the speaker steps outside to check on the moon. It isn't quite full, still flat on one side, yet its ring of light looks perfect. From there the poem moves through small sensory details: the heavy smell of dame's-rocket, which the speaker keeps breathing in, and driveway stones that gleam like dropped coins.
The most striking moment turns back toward the house. Its fluorescent light seems pale and artificial beside the moon, and the speaker compares it to the lit face of someone texting in a dark concert hall, a glow that feels out of place in a quiet, shared dark. The mood is calm, attentive and a little wistful. The speaker isn't in a hurry. The last lines hold on to the moment: it's still only May, summer hasn't fully arrived, and in the long grass one cricket is already singing, as if the season were just beginning to speak.