The acorn woodpeckers are usually the last birds to settle down for the night. The approach of dusk finds them flitting from tree to tree, chattering to one another, as though they were reluctant to surrender the pleasures of the day. I seldom have a day the pleasures of which are such as to bring me any similar reluctance. For me, night provides the greater delight, it having, this time of year, not only a release from the stultifying heat, but usually giving me a few quiet hours to myself. Following a sultry day, a night which quickly cools and turns gently breezy is especially welcome. I can sit and listen to the leaves rustle and watch them flash bits of moonlight, and see their shadows scribe a motile dappling across the ground. The crickets share their soft chirps, the heartbeat of nocturnal serenity. Let the sleeping woodpeckers dream of the day. I'll listen for the owl.