Tonight, I pay with heavy eyes for last night's quiet vigil, for the pre-dawn walk home through silent streets, for the lullaby that grew under my tongue as I crept through the leaves. I would do it again. The secret is not to regret. The secret is to write down the lullaby as soon as you're in the door, to try for the sounds, to watch lullaby turn incantatory, hopeful for the disposition of those not near. The secret is to ask for the tongue's lilt to slow, for the spine to unfurl while the thumbed palm falls open. The secret is to promise to guard the moon.