The rain has stopped. Night is full of things; the familiar stars of June, the trees that catch their faint light, the damp lawn where crickets chirp, the pavement that sounds softly to the fall of my steps. The light of the waning moon falls there too, and I walk to where my shadow appears, and follow it along the pale path a for while. The fronts of houses glow dimly where they are not shadowed by trees, and are silent. No one peers from their windows. The street is best at night, when I have it to myself. Newspapers have already been delivered, and lie in the darkness, their dark words indistinguishable from the night. No one will pass this way now until dawn, when the early risers come out to fetch the damp journals. I hear a single drop of water fall from a tree and make a soft splat on a lawn. Until the first bird chirps, there is no more news.