Wind has risen to shudder the cold leaves and shake the moonless night's invisible boughs. I hear the throng of spring and summer's ghosts scuffling north, the chill at their backs. Autumn sheds its colorful cloak with a dry rustle, and as the bones of trees are exposed, so are the stars, twinkling now through the turbulent air. All the night has come alive with sound; thuds and creaks, cracks and groans, skitterings and flutters, and above it all, the constant sigh of pines eddying the rushing wind. Though but the dimmest shapes can be discerned, there is a clarity to the darkness as these sounds reveal the forms of the forest. Soon, gray light will expose the world, and though the wind may persist, the sounds will no longer be the source of revelation. Day will diminish both the mystery of night and that aural beacon which has made its presence tangible. My imagination fails with the stars, unable to compete with the common light.