This is the first night this summer when the wind has been strong enough to make the pines sing. It is not too strong here on the ridge, but in the canyon of the Feather River, a half mile east, it is stronger, and the sound the trees make is very much like the sound of distant traffic which I once listened to in Los Angeles. I can imagine the city nearby, although it is several hundred miles away. It pleases me to think of it, on those nights years ago when I would walk the deserted streets until near dawn and then return to my house while the city woke and I returned to it's darker self in dreams. Today, I will sleep in this quiet place, but, if I dream, my dreams will echo those older dreams. That city will never leave me, no matter where I go.