Ten O’Clock + 

Dew on the grass, dew on small unpickable roses, making them sweeter, giving them an odor. Otherwise, they had no odor, except that of youth and growth, as young girls have no particular attributes, save the kinship of youth and growth. Dew on the grass, the grass assumed a faint luminousness as if it had stolen light from day and the moisture of night were releasing it, giving it back to the world again. Tree frogs shrilled in the trees, insects droned in the grass. Tree frogs are poison, negroes had told him. If they spit on you, you’ll die. When he moved they fell silent (getting ready to spit, perhaps), when he became still again, they released the liquid flute-like monotony swelling in their throats, filling the night with the imminence of summer. Spring, like a girl loosing her girdle.⁠ ⁠… People passed in belated ones and twos. Words reached him in meaningless snatches. Fireflies had not yet come. + 