Nighttime winds whip ‘n whorl tree branches, as mist sprays directionless. And in some odd hour of the night limbs are felled without witness. The abundant fragrance of new growth birthed and nurtured at 130’ now sits street side. In the morning, the robin on the high hill bathes in the perfume. He thrashes in and out of the low hanging fog snacking on easily gotten worms picked from the soft earth.