Yours truly is typing this while lolling on my Old Frontenac porch with ears tuned to the sounds of a late-August night (after listening to Dolly Parton songs all day, sigh). These night sounds include brisk crickets and cicadas; the mournful long-long-short-long calls of trains two or three miles off, which trigger the wistful howls of their coyote acolytes; the brisk, urgent hoots of great horned or barred owls, and the occasional spooky death cry of a cottontail rabbit in the jaws of the aforementioned coyotes, foxes or owls.