The storm has passed. Sky swept clear of clouds, the gibbous moon's light sets water drops glittering on every leaf and twig. The night goes quiet, the insistent air is cold, and nothing stirs. On the pavement, a streak of silver imperceptibly advances as the shadow of the eaves retreats, exposing the brick porch floor. Each time I go out, the scene is slightly altered. The moon's noon comes just as the number of stars begins to diminish in the paling sky. The empty street revealed waits for its daily users. Not being among them, I let it leave my thoughts for now, and re-enter the warm house. The confined light shows me all the hoarded things and the walls and floor and ceiling which are not possessions any more than are the moon and stars. Rooms are merely places where clocks tick and the hour hand moves as slowly or as fast as a tree's or a roof gable's shadow. I walk through the house. I think nobody's home.