Here and there, wings have gone to dust that fluttered so last year, a moldering prune, an empty house in which a bird resided where last year's flies their errand ran and last year's crickets fell.

There is a hill near my house that I often climb at night. The noise of the city is a far-off murmur. In the hush of the dark I share the cheerfulness of the crickets and the confidence of owls.