Early morning, before the sun shows its face, the clearest sound is the chirp of distant tree frogs up in the trees and down near the river there is the other sound of the steady drip of leftover raindrops sliding from the leaves of the trees to the ground. The drops hit with a popping sound and if there is a small breeze the pops fall on top of one another in a crazy chase. The full moon sits smiling in the black western sky like half a peach, glowing with the promise of warm spring. The air, although comfortably cool, is still damp from the many days of heavy rain. It smells laundry clean. Soon birdsong and boatsong will thrust their energy into the silence. But for this very brief time all is quiet except for the distant and short tweet of frogs and the rhythmic jazz of drip-drops all around me.