A ground-hugging fog has brought a damp scent that fills the late night air. Only the brightest stars penetrate this vapor. The denser light my window spills reveals the gnarled, bony branches of the mulberry tree, not yet concealed by the still-thin spring foliage. From somewhere to the north come the sounds of night birds who are sending out piercing cries. All else is silence, and all the landscape beyond reach of that bit of light from my window is obscured, a hazed world of looming, dark masses that I know are trees, but can easily imagine are opened voids into which the crying birds are falling. As it will disperse the fog, the coming light of the sun will dissolve this fancy, returning solidity to the forms of the world. I must enjoy this dark illusion while it remains.