Sitting here in bed I can hear nothing, not a sound, a whisper or an echo. It is as if the world around me has fallen quietly into a dark and dreamless sleep, where dark shadows move silently, caressing the long trodden pathways of road and field. While the wind slowly works her way through the heavy laden branches, that curve downwards under the burden of their richly green leaves. The foxgloves seem to invade the edges of the pathways, never daring to move closer for fear of destruction. Long gone the fluttering wings and calls of the winged interlopers, feeding upon the treasures unearthed by the heavy rain. The rivulets of water cascading down the solid glass, cutting down the sweet pea like an imaginary scythe. The day long gone, the night has closed upon us, and we will only be released as the dawn begins to break and the cycle of the waking hours returns. I am a trespasser into this world and as such must wait my turn to discern the hidden voices of the night.