There are light, vaporous clouds overhead; dark, fuscous ones in the north. The trees are turned black. As candles are lit on earth, stars are lit in the heavens. I hear the bullfrog's trump from afar.
At this quiet hour the evening wind is heard to moan in the hollows of your face, mysterious, spirit-like, conversing with you. It can be heard only now.
There is dew only in the low grounds. What were the firefly's light, if it were not for the darkness?
--Thoreau, June 24, 1852
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved