All day it blew, through the house, through the trees, over the bedclothes, over my books and my reading, over my distractions and difficulties with working, over the third poem that perched in my ear and snarled until I wrote it down, gave it a place in my gut to hitch a ride. But when the evening settled over, looking like rain, dropping slow soft drops for moments, the warm wind quieted to cooler breeze, and now it rustles and rushes in the night, low wordless whispering. And in between? Fireflies scattered out over the landscape, causing exclamations and e-mails up and down campus: one person's coo of delight at an insect never seen caught, another's exhortation that I venture back out and see a glory not to be missed. Now we are all settling in for the night, the fireflies darkened to rest, the wind soothing and speaking itself hushingly, some of us reading, some of us sleeping, all of us safe (or as recklessly safe as safe's likely to get) in this small, lovely place.