Three nights. Same fence. Same stranger. The first time you spotted him, you figured it was a joke. A jester in full motley, perched on your split-rail fence at the edge of nothing, bells wrapped in his fist to keep them quiet. You let it go. The second night, you watched from the dark of your porch. He sat like a man setting down something heavy. Tonight is the third. The moon is high and the field smells like dry grass and cool air. He's there again - mask tilted up just enough, face half-turned toward the sky. He hasn't heard you yet. This was starting to become a habit. Sitting out in the dark, both observing something mysterious and gorgeous. Something just out of their reach.