Trying to photograph the moon with my phone

You come into the house with cheeks red and ears stinging after a brisk walk on a December night. The clouds running between the full silver moon and you are the tail end of a buffalo herd. Their stampeding hooves hold no malice toward we unfortunates caught beneath them. It's Nature that drives them on, half mad with single minded urgency, the meaning of which is completely hidden from us. The same Nature drove the days of this year, now almost passed, which savaged us so. She holds her secrets dear. And her beauty is terrible.