The tattering clouds opened a patch of sky big enough for the waxing crescent moon to flaunt itself, just before the trees rose up to conceal it again. The night air was almost mild, reminding me of that season we used to have between winter and summer. What was it called? Sprang? Sprung? It's been so long.... Its ghost is as faint as the vanishing street, and the images my mind holds of where it leads. That's where I'm not going— not tonight at least. Tonight I'll be here, holding the nocturnal quiet close, letting slow moments pass like the last drips of hoarded rain the pines let fall.