Echo

Night lets loose the stars, and there are few clouds to encumber them. April is gathering her skirts, preparing for departure. The sky is being freed, even as cloaks of new leaves, rustled by grass-scented breezes, have enfolded the town. What might prove to have been the last chilly day for months has ended, and by the time the waning moon rises tonight the air will be as cold as it's likely to get until fall arrives. It will soon be time to put away the heavy blankets for summer. I expect to hear crickets any night now. Not tonight, though. Tonight the wind will blow like winter's echo, and the pines will shiver. I intend to savor it as something to recall when the stars of July look like beads of sweat on the sultry brow of the sky.