There's no moon tonight, and the air is again mild. Where not veiled by thin clouds, the undimmed stars glitter. Orion has climbed from the jagged darkness of the woods, and now hangs above the apple orchard where those cicadas who have survived the recent rain and cold are singing as though late summer had returned. Less hardy cicadas are dying on my back porch. The feral cats ignore them, but sit on the concrete patio, which still holds some of the day's warmth, and stare into the night, seeing what remains a mystery to me.