The night is soft, the still air silent and cool, the clouds concealing the stars. Well-leafed, the oaks now make my corner of the forest smaller, filling gaps between the slim trunks of the spare-branched pines, as though insisting that I retire into their glade. Even by night, their airy mass embraces the street and makes of sky a roof. Distances retreat from thin leaves which catch night's shadows and weave them into a solid cloak of darkness. Drifting mists grow dense and pass into pattering rain, return to mist, vanish and return. All night, the water feeds the growing leaves of sheltering spring.