The thickness of the air also induced a bit of claustrophobia this evening. While I was out walking, the town's usual evening sounds seemed to crowd in on me. Before the cicadas began to buzz I heard the evening traffic, a bouncing basketball, motorcycles going back and forth, doors slamming, dogs barking, a passing ambulance, kids shouting, crows cawing, and a woodpecker hammering at my fence.
Most present to me though were the sounds my footsteps made, counting down the light. I made them pause when I noticed that four or five small blossoms still clung to the jasmine hedge. Bending very close I could smell the faint scent of the last weeks of spring, preserved into the last weeks of summer. It was saddening to smell that scent in September, knowing what the promise of the season had come to. As I returned to the house, a few dry oak leaves crunched underfoot. The night air still carried a hint of burning.
