Dissatisfied with every thought which comes to mind, I watch evening grow. The clouds have at last withdrawn to the east, where they now shadow the mountains, intercepting the last rays of sunlight. The rest of the sky has grown pale, fading from afternoon's deep blue like an old blanket washed too many times. There was an hour when it was like shades of gray and blue and white paint swirling in water where a painter had dipped his brushes, and then a sudden outburst of sunlight quickly warmed the air, and the flowers of the sourgrass unfurled and the last remaining raindrops glistened on every leaf. Following the long hours of overcast, it was startling to see such brilliance. But I am still dissatisfied with every thought which comes to mind. With dusk, the frogs begin to croak, and I hear the last birds and the first crickets. They have more to say than I do.