Sounds arrive, of distant cars passing and dogs barking, of rustling in bushes as birds settle for the night. The silent crescent moon slides down a pine branch and drops from sight. A few small clouds still reflect its dim glow, while the rest of the sky is a sprinkling of stars. I invent a new constellation, just above Orion's head. No longer The Hunter, he now totes an immense paper fan. Or maybe he has become a dancer in a movie ballet choreographed by Agnes DeMille, and I see him in mid-leap, trailing a vast billow of silk held aloft by a wind machine. He will soon pirouette into the arms of Gene Kelly, and they will kiss, briefly, before parting forever. Perhaps, somewhere, Cyd Charisse stalks a bear.