A curtain of evening purples the passing sky and in that narrow gap between day and night a twittering in the twilight. A peculiar "peenting" call punctuates the end of another day's waiting in the wild wood. The birdsong catalog in my brain rolls through the memory cards of such sounds and first to mind comes a nighthawk. Common, yes-- and so I look skyward-- surprised that I cannot spy stiff oaring flight-- or wing patches flashing white. And though in shirtsleeves I sit the chill falling fast with the sun's solemn parting reminds me of the date. It is January and the bull bats have long since departed to places where palm trees grow and the wandering warblers go. And then suddenly I know. With the twittering and peenting circling above me- somewhere up there over the tangle of scrubby leavings the axe men left to rot in the opening where trees once stood--it is the perfect place and the end of the mystery too. It is the invisible pas de deux. It is the righteous reel of a feathered thing I cannot see through failing light that moves my heart--- and then my mind to remember the woodcock's ways. It is Aldo's sky dancers taking the stage.