I will wait until morning. As the amber glow strokes the dew from the first blades, and the night mists convalesce and rise and lay in wait to fall as rain, and the curlews sing their tributes to the dissipating gloom, and the street lamps flicker as they head once more to bed, I shall crawl from my nest, and sing my own song, not out loud, quietly, to myself. But no, not right now. Only then.