Night in the mountains is beautiful. The air is cool, like a walk through a rainstorm, and smells of pine needles and wood smoke and forgotten memories. The wind blew our fingers cold, and our cheeks red, as it fanned the coals of the fire into flames. We walked by the lake, sat in olive green lawn chairs, and roasted marshmallows as the stars shone through the trees, and the birds sung themselves to sleep. And we listened; noiseless, except for the gentle plucking of guitar strings, that created a harmony to the musical melody of almost silent night life, brimming with life, and vigor, that was as electric as it was hushed.