The darkling clouds racing across the moon cast long silvered shadows on the edges of the well plowed blacktop winding over the horizon. The fields, smoother in snow than they had been through the long dry summer, sparkled in moonshadow and listened to the footprints of deer. Over the rolling sleeping valley, a faint bass vibratioon was heard, a deepthroated soft-edged rumble of power and speed under gentle but firm control.

The night air flashed to a tight probe of solid light as the noise grew and a single powerful headlight crossed the sky and illuminated the stark trees. Out of the shadows in the valley floor, the muscular form of a 1939 Indian motorcycle took shape, stirring the snowdust as it sliced the cold air banking the turns on the long road up to the Mudcat Tavern, heeling to aperfect graceful stop in the gravel lot outside the warm bright windows.

A tall stranger climbed down from the tall frame of the Indian and reached into the saddle bag, freeing the lithe inquisitive form of a long-tailed capuchin monkey who proceeded to clamber onto the shoulder of hs woollined flight jacket. He bent down and unstrapped a Dreadnought hardshell case from the rear rack, and strode for the worn polished entrance, entering the warm tavern in a burst of snow dust and cold air.

"By God, it is good to be here one more time!!! A thimble of Chivas for my friend here, Miss Keeper, if you will, and a quart of vile brown stuff. And a toast to your eternal light, grace, and beauty, to boot!"