Evening begins, and the frazzled silhouette of trees feels the double embrace of cloud and moon. Somewhere a bird traces the scene as it floats in both worlds, oblique between the same jade or dappled silver. A new season is hinting, air awash with the idiom of rustling leaves. Within this dark zone of a mirror time is orchestrated, strings through pines, needles of sound. How perfect this music, as if wind playing wind is all eloquence.