Cool

Clouds rode the wind all the starless night, and chill made spring's leaves shudder. I could breathe this air for weeks on end and never tire of it. It smells of oceanic vastness and all the forests of the world, of burrowed earth and deep-rooted grass, of moss and mushrooms and ages of accumulated humus. On its edge, the faintest hint of jasmine explodes like a memory of desert sun.

Pleasantness

Most of the clouds have withdrawn to the higher mountains, and their outliers drift and gleam in the blue afternoon, now and then dragging a shadow across the forest. The sun soon returns to be caught by green leaves and fine strands of spider silk. The last cat, having napped away the early afternoon on the back porch, has moved to the sunny front yard and now drowses in the flower bed, lulled by the buzzing of bees. The pavements are warm enough to cause the ants to scurry, but the air remains blessedly cool. My most difficult decision is whether the evening will be warm enough to justify making iced tea. This is what I would consider a good day.