The jasmine hours pass. The moon abandons the sky to stars, and the scent grows heavier as darkness deepens. Sweetness permeates the shadowless world where mild air vibrates to cricket songs. Unseen insects flutter and buzz, their rapid, soft wings grazing my ears, ruffling my hair. The entire night becomes dazed with perfume. Underfoot, the plush lawn slows my footfalls and gives a faint rustle with each step. It is in the stillness under the mulberry tree that the fragrance is most dense. I linger there, and hear nearby the faint sound of moths hitting the window screen. Perhaps the jasmine has made them drunk. The hours pass, but they seem longer tonight, as though time itself were pausing to absorb the heady scent of this languid air. Only as morning light begins to obscure the stars does a breeze arise, and the leaves stir, shaking off an enchantment which has held them all the night. The sound of them is like the rustle of garments as someone departs, leaving the trail of their perfume, which slowly fades as dreams do.