The television in the background is a game of blind man’s bluff. The small wind beneath the tree may be the fluttering of a pheasant’s wings. The light through the window may be the moon hunting. The night sounds may be your voice returning naked or crickets folded into the wall. The fields retreat to their dark creases in the fountains of hills. Now is the time of the good darkness when our hands imagine the ripeness that awaits a feathery sun.