It is on our hands, it is in our mouths at every breath, how not to remember? Called back to night when we were wildlife, before kindling or kine, we sit behind moonlit glass in our McMansions, cool millions at rehearsal here for our rendezvous each with his own earth hour.

We are feral at heart, unhouseled creatures. Mind is the maker, mad for light, for enlightenment, this late admission of darkness the cost, and the silence on our tongues as we count the hour down - the coin we bring, long hoarded just for this - the extended cry of our first coming to this ambulant, airy Schatzkammer and midden, our green accommodating tomb.