Turning

[rejectomorph]

Lingering clouds have dimmed the night and slowed the departure of day's heat once again. The few stars which penetrate the overcast are pale, the air stolid, and the dark leaves hang limp. Four o'clock, and I hear the car of Monday's first commuter. The wash of sound dissolves the serenity, then slowly recedes, leaving the darkness to the crickets once again. It seems a long while before the next car passes, but they will soon come more frequently. The northeast grows pale. Tonight, it has truly begun to smell like summer, with a strong scent of dry grass, sharpened by a hint of pine resin. It pleases me that the nights will soon grow perceptibly longer. The best days of the year have passed, but the best nights lie ahead.