The loamy smell of fresh-turned earth fills the night air of Edison. A dog barks twice.
Stars circle a country moon, nearly full and bright as a halogen light.
The moon's white light flickers as an enormous flock of trumpeter swans crosses its path. Wings ruffle the chill air. Their cacophonous squawks are like a chorus of air horns over the fertile tidal flats. Quiet, locals tell you, is why they came here. Quiet is why they stay.