Liquid night flows with eddying breezes and the hum of pines. The moon, barely clearing the treetops, floats on the surface of the drowned world. The trees, sunk in vegetable repose, leave me alone. The moon draws my thoughts across the sky, and then to sink somewhere out there in the unseen Pacific. I'm left dull and languid in the dark hour before the sky pales. At the end of the driveway, there is a bright spot on the ground. I can't see it if I look directly at it, but it appears in the corner of my eye. At last, I realize that it is a pool of runoff from lawn sprinklers up the street. It reflects the dim sky now bereft of moon. In the morning, birds will drink from this pool. For now, it is a mirror in which I see only pale light, but can imagine my reflection.