Waiting for that well-known fever, listening to the dogs bay the moon west, lying on the grass to watch Orion leave the sky: passing the night. The night breeze has veered about, bringing southern airs warmed by the radiant soil of orchards coming into bloom. The cats are abroad, seeking prey coaxed to the surface by this new gentleness which wraps the woods, and piercing cries reveal the nighthawk's flight. A scuffling in the brush might be some rodent's untimely end, but the chorus of frogs does not falter in its song. All the darkness has come alive, and cares nothing for what passes in its deepest corners. Bursts of pollen drift unseen as the vegetable world procreates. I am in the midst of an orgy and a feast, a bystander at profligate revels, ignored and irrelevant. I listen to the trees hum, and continue to wait.