The slow-changing woods and fields lie in dark repose, and the fowl and beasts of night make hardly a stir. The houses, thin and silent, frail things of few years, are wrapped in earth's shade after moonset. Ancient stone heaved heavenward again and again, and now, for a time, at rest, supports the fragile moment, this transient place and all the minds in foundered sleep; the works of man, and nature's softest realm, rushing stream and darting bat, empty pavements, silent workshops, coiled snake and watchful deer, ticking clocks that sound in restless sleepers dreams, seeded ground and creaking branch, all strewn across the clinging skin of soil. Eyes closed, I can imagine I feel the speed of turning earth, and its long wheel about the sun. How far, I wonder, has it traveled while this oak grew, or that pine, or while these roads were laid across the rumpled ridges of this brief town? How small a fraction is that of the distance it traversed in the ages that these mountains rose? Across the street a window lights in an early-rising neighbor's house. Someone's day begins before the dawn, their coffee brewed with water already ancient when it was home to the first trilobites, in some distant space from which the stars were strange. As I watch the shaft of light from the window, in my thoughts the house is blown through the universe like a speck of dust on unending wind.