I smell fresh earth, wolfsbane and lavender, a growing chill as the moon dips elusively `tween cloud and forest. The night is crisp, my lungs wax and wane creating great billows of steam, my only companion my shadow which has fled with the overcast sky, is a slave to the dusty haze that laces rock, tree, and stream in a blanket of gleaming silver...handsome the night can be, when it is only you that is looking at her, all of its essence en masse surrounds you controlling each sense, threatening superstition with void, her voice a million swaying branches, the howls and pleas of owl, wolf, and wind. Here in this moment, one can transcend time and progression. You taste the same air, feel the same winds that man knows a thousand of your fathers ago...the great lament of our lives grows fatter without the mystery of night, her power absolute over all for aeons, yet she is forgotten. she whispers through blades of grass, calling softly to any who may listen and remember that the most visceral memories are those of a primal nature. deify these thoughts for they will eternally mock logic. seed your mind with her voice.....