The day's last crow wings roostward cawless, a swift dark shape grazing the burnished blue fading sky. The motionless pines wait to be swallowed by darkness. All the pent heat will soon escape the pavement. Already, the smell of asphalt, brick and concrete mingles with the scents of dry grass and sweated pine resin. Evening traffic sounds fade, and only an occasional human noise, of closing doors, passing cars and muffled televisions, interrupts the song of the few remaining crickets. Jupiter appears before the sky is fully dark, conjuring the disturbing image of a sparkling blue eye floating disembodied in a cerulean lake. The waning moon will not rise until past midnight. In the intervening dark hours, I will look at the southern sky where, among the swath of faint stars there, but unidentifiable by my naked eye, is the center of the galaxy, as it was 30,000 years ago. The crow will be sleeping somewhere, unaware.