What could be more serene than the deep black night, a nearly starless china shop of sugar sharp pinpricks shocked by bullish lunar intruder, swift chilled mountain air, filtered crisp and crystal through pristine pine ablaze with lightning bugs blinking like caution signs in sync with the throbbing meat beneath, aching impossibly.  And what to do if that cry was heard?  By an unseen native, a sourceless shadow drooling after a wandering rump roast, whimpering for release?