There has been a lull in the storm, and no rain has fallen for an hour. The absence of its drumming clarifies the sound of wind which, though diminished, still evokes the aspirate voices of the pines. The stirring of the air now reaches the ground as well, and brief gusts set the leaves of shrubs fluttering, to clatter like hundreds of clucking tongues. All this clash and murmur fails to obscure the chorus of frogs which now sounds, a bright sustain rising from the sodden woodland glades. The clouds do not depart, nor reveal the sky where stars near the hour of their fading. The landscape will soon grow less dim, and distance will return-- as will, I expect, the rain. For now, I can walk and remain dry, listening to my footsteps make a slight squishing sound on the wet pavement, and feeling the wind's teasing touch as the final day of February waits to dawn.