Is that gibbous moon I see now through the branches of the Ponderosas waxing or waning? I loose track of such things anymore. When I first came to this place, I was astonished by the brightness of the multitude of stars. The sound of the breezes that swept through the trees caught my ear each time I left the house. The resinous scent that they carried, along with the seasonal scents of other plants, would never escape my notice. Now, only the pungency of Spurge Laurel or the heavy sweetness of Night Blooming Jasmine can awaken my senses in the spring; the acrid smell of brush fires in the summer or wood smoke from stoves and fireplaces in the fall and winter chill. Most of the time, it takes a fairly strong wind to get my attention, and, after staring at the screen of this computer, my eyes take too long to adjust to the comparative dimness of the stars. Only the moon retains the power to draw my jaded eye. But, is it a waxing or a waning moon?