The night is as still as deep water with no kiss of breeze. Only the rhythmic sleeping breath of the darkness brushes ever so slightly against the ear. Then beyond the gate, the tolling bark of a street dog rings. Its voice echoes among the sleeping concrete honeycombs, seeking specific ears. Then an expectant hush. A stray voice punctuates the night in kind, distantly; a reply. Ever so faintly, another joins. The ritual conversation has begun; a secret society moonlit meeting. Only the night knows the affair .
A small stone in River of Stones entry.