Sun-beaten earth gives up day's gathered radiance to night air, invisible waves of heat surging skyward where the moon hangs, its own reflected radiance flooding woods and fields with shimmers of cool light. Spiders spin their webs, which brush my face as I pass dark shrubs. I imagine the rising thermals on which night hawks soar. Unseen things abound. A pinecone falls from a nearby tree, insect wings buzz past my ear, crickets chirp in the undergrowth. I smell the heat in the woody scent of bushes which conceal sleeping birds, and in the cloying gardenias, and the pavement's softened tar. The air itself feels almost viscid. I spread a blanket on the ground and watch the stars fade. Only so late as that does a slight breeze stir and bring a touch of coolness. Another day of feverish, unremembered dreams approaches.