We're listening to Duke Ellington singing "In My Solitude" in that trademark raspy voice, emanating from the small bubbly Apple speakers like a deep air quake. A vibrant blue bird stares at me with one red eye from his perch on a bunch of orange berries on my computer desktop. I took that photo a couple of days ago when the floods drove the forest creatures into the lab clearing.

The night is dark and heavy outside. Tropical moisture condenses on blades of grass, illuminated by the rectangles of yellow light cast from the windows of this building. Gravity-defying geckos scurry like elusive dreams, playing with the edges of the shadows under the eaves, stalking the hapless insects intoxicated by the bright fluorescent lights.

We float through the darkness like lost spirits, casting our flashlight beams longingly at the world around us, parched for a good view of even a tiny piece of the expansive night world spreading away from our feet in a jagged cape of black velvet. The sounds of the jungle surround us, lapping at our ears like the waves of an ocean, rhythmic and soothing. The chirps of treefrogs ricochet in our eardrums. Electrical hums from crickets sizzle on our neurons. The cacophany merges into a single humming wave, shimmering through our consciousness, laying the foundation for our perception of this mystery dreamworld.

Somewhere, the great potoo squawks like a creaking door opening backwards. Her enormous carnival doll-sized yellow eyes draw in enough faint moonlight that she sees everything around her. Spiders tap-dance among the leaves and twigs, monitoring for prey like military guard robots set to kill. We move slowly on the trail, scanning for serpents. The potoo lands on a branch and preens, then wings to the lab clearing for better hunting.

My mind wanders among the silky dark forms above me. Trees reach starward, darkening the indigo silver night cloudscape with black craggy spires. I wonder what the view looks like from up there. Maybe I should ask the potoo.

This world thrives. Every minute four and one half pounds of sunlight rocket into our atmosphere and collide with the earth, clouds of photons fizzling into our planet's crust like mist from a three hundred and sixty degree golden waterfall. Plants reach out with green bodies, stretching, crawling, digging, pulling, hanging, and flying, desperately clamoring for every precious bead of sunlight. By night they rest and rebuild themselves, preparing for the next day's upward race. Night creatures with surprised, unbelieving expressions wander through the canopy. Snakes prowl the muddy hillocks, winnowing their way through the tropical leaf litter.

We speak for a while, stare for a while, and then return to the lab, where we plug back into the datastream and activate our control panels. I employ my arcane skills as a computer user and delicately flurry around the keyboard and mouse of this folding plastic box. I check my email. I think about the cloak of blackness, and this little pocket of light harvested from the sun by way of the trees and the rivers and the winds.

How many pounds of sunglight am I made of? How many pounds of sunlight are you looking at right now? How many pounds of sunglight does it take to open my blog and start typing?

The great potoo cruises across the river, makes a sound like a Bruce Lee movie, and wafts away into the folds of the cape. I will follow her to sleep.