The night sings. The night is a song. Listen to it with the choruses of cicadas in the background.

The night paints with lights and shadows. The sky is a palette of purple clouds and silver stars and the zinc white of the moon. Below, the darkness is washed by neons and halogens and mercury bulbs in the streets. The warmest colors are from bedroom windows and the pastel curtains they shine through.

And I--I am a shadow in a window, watching men and women trudging home from work to be with their loved ones, to call it a day, to snuggle in bed oblivious to the music and to the visual art of the night.