The woods beside the pond are green even at dusk but oaks, maples and the splendid elm rage in celebration. Mallards brush tops of purple sage, two deer edge by and vanish into dark that folds like a black fan. My yearlings munching grass, touch shoulders; Suddenly necks arch -- expecting rain. I take my cue about the rain and bring three logs inside. By midnight water thunders in Wagnerian crescendo. By four a.m. the trees unbend searching for moonlight. In half sleep I see pines beckon to the deer whose long necks flecked with rain stretch to drink. I see them all, although the pond is on the down side of the hill.