Quiet Hour

Moon half full. Fields dusky; the evening star and one other bright one near the moon. It is a cool but pretty still night.

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