Dead of Night

[rejectomorph]

The waxing moon sneaks among the treetops. Summer night's shadows run long, and barely move as the north wind sets the pine needles humming. A delightful chill enlivens the air, as though the night anticipated the coming of autumn. After moonset, the trees shrink back into the deepening darkness, and the sky grows large with stars. Only a few crickets still sing. For an hour, the only other sound is a single bark from a dog. It feels as though dead of night might go on forever.