The steady rain has paused, and the clouds, descending, nuzzle into the vales and shroud the trees. Now night is all a luminescent mist. The water drips from the trees onto the bed of fallen leaves which, moistened, scent the chilly air with a smell prescient of next spring's growth. In the bushes, the small birds shelter silent in their nests. Only the owl wakes and watches the night, from some high branch of a ponderosa. Tomorrow, surely, a bit of sun.