"We try to see in the dark; we toss up our questions and they catch in the trees." ~ Annie Dillard After rain, the cotton-heavy breasts of clouds; the redbud, the hawthorn, the fringe tree. I still hear the one that tapped all morning, insistent in front of a gate that wouldn't move. Only the moon pauses, stretches wide as a palmful of dough. Unmuffled, the owls begin their two-note chant: who-when? who-when? I've long understood how distance is what makes the faraway conspicuous, the near at hand swizzle into a kind of silence.