Neighbours left: out. Neighbours right: on holiday. Neighbours down and across: gone to bed. Cars few, intermittent. Moon not yet risen. Stars.
And clouds. In this hot hush they scarcely move, but loom pallidly upwards into the night, trailing wraiths and rags. They collect to themselves and exhale the house lights behind, the street lamps over the hill, the Moon below the horizon. They extinguish the stars; and worse, they put out the dark.