Tonight, I've been watching the harvest moon set the trees to glimmering and drape the ground and walls in filigree shadows. Rare veils of cloud have drifted by and softened the brightness, but most of the hours have been measured by sharp lines between light and dark, every object a moondial. The cool air is perfectly still, and the slow glide of shadows thus undisturbed. All night, I have heard no sound of wing or footfall; no deer, no raccoons, no owls. Even the crickets have fallen silent. It is as though the forest, feeling the sharpness of the air, has held its breath in surprise. Now, the shadows have grown long, and the bright west will soon be outshone by the east. Night can bide its time. Soon, it will outstay the day. Like some long-sought oasis, Autumn, with its shade and cool waters lies just over the horizon. None too soon, I say.