acceding only to time now do i feel the pull from summer's courting; the air was pregnant tonight with the stink of the forest's lust. Pollens and complex sugars hung in the air from trees to bait the urge to stop and sneeze. And to the north and the west was the moon, dancing with Venus, the evening star. Lofty drafts from the Bellamy mixed the smells of the small valley together, reminding me that the outside ends up in, and not the inside out. Every pull to the left or right chimes the strings between all these things, and every brisk spring night whispers secrets of tomorrow through the pregnant air.