Standing on the porch, I hear the first small drops hitting the leaves of the mulberry tree. The image which comes to my mind is of grains of sand striking the bottom of an hourglass. The tree is sharply outlined against the bright patch of clouds behind which the nearly full moon is hidden. Earlier, the light fell unfettered, but now all is dimly aglow, even the vague shadows of shrubs and eaves and fences darkling. The raindrops fall faster, scenting the night, freshening the desiccated air. I have managed for a while to return to that world bound only by my imagination, and the tangible is glossed in imagination's luster, which holds it fast, as though by spell all had been turned to glass, never to move again. This thought-conjured world will inevitably shatter, but an hour here is worth an age of reality. The rain now hisses through the pines and turns ordinary streets to dark mirrors, creating the sense that the world of illusion might be as real as the concrete world it reflects; that it might be easy to pass between them. I walk out into the dim, moist night, and wait for my feet to sink into the ground.