Sometimes--after futile all-nights--deserts fill my work-house and smoking sand gets in my eyes . . . and I must split the swollen cabin to check the dawn, to find: the creek still parties with the moon . . . the thrusting pine and whippoorwills still celebrate the sun. It generally works, and things are cool, but sometimes--after cutting out--nothing out there happens but the night. And those days were best forgotten.