A sleepless night.A white night. A night known to the French as a nuit blanche.
I lie awake and listen to crackling, rattling, tweaks and creaks: the rhythm of a patois strange to me: the language of expansion and contraction and wholly understood by those in close touch with the mercurial moods of weather and its effect on wood.
I lie awake and wonder: is the house in haste to spill a secret - like the secret Charles Fort said that for so long a time all the pots and kettles in the world were busily blabbing, that went unheard because it was not yet steam-engine time? I lie awake and listen for some momentous message although even in the light of this nuit blanche, its mystery seems far from being guessed or unveiled by me.