The shooshing of the wind late at night, in darkness after moonset, is not a civilized sound. I sit under the maple, beneath its fire of leaves. Wind rattles the dry foliage, limbs creak, a seeming artless music, each gust changing rhythm and timbre, its constancy beyond human, nearly beyond endurance. Though lacking the art of meaning it draws the unknowing listener into the loneliness of dogwood scented countryside. Truly there is no meaning in the music. That wind and I mean nothing in the night, how I cherish these empty times.