The sound of a jet's wake rolls around the sky, reminding me a bit of distant thunder, a bit of surf, a bit of a cat purring. A sustained wind plays through the treetops, too, its hum blending with the rumble left by the receding plane. Night being moonless, I cannot see the trees move. I only hear their stirring. On the ground, the air is still except for brief flurries which send dry leaves skittering a few feet. Far off, I hear a faint chirring of cicadas. But for the dark shapes of the trees, a few stars, and the quick flash of a single meteor, there is nothing to be seen. That is why the sounds dominate the night; that, and the soft stir of air against my skin, and the scents of dry grass and pungent pine resin. The town has vanished, and does not intrude as I indulge my other senses. I feel almost sybaritic. The darkest nights are the best.