The air smells fresh, like earth after rain. It’s a sleeping town, all quiet if not for the crickets singing their lullabies in every little corner of each house. A raspy little melody that seems to join the discreet cacophony of the frog’s happy croak.

The sky, a canvas for the swift dance of the air, holding the stars against it’s chest, like a lover spinning around their dear one in a passionate reunion. It’s their laughter that shines all around the monlight, fluttering stars of love that shine even in the darkest hideouts.

A serene cloak of salt that falls from the mountains and seems to sprinkle the houses with a heavy sleeping powder, so potent the snores of men, women and children join the chorum that praises tonight’s masterpiece.