Splendid thunderheads rise over the Sierra today, north and south; great frothing masses shadowing the forests. But here the sky remains clear, the grassy lower ridges lying brown under the heat, and the asymetric branches of the digger pines reach toward a pale blue blankness where the sun rides unobscured. In the shaded arroyos the streams, so recently full and loud, have dried, or have been reduced to slight rills with barely a voice. Stillness. Only the tips of the tallest ponderosas will, from time to time, sway slightly in some vague breeze. Reduced to a beautiful lassitude, I embrace my enervation as a lover, allowing my thoughts to drain away like the last patch of snow melting in a high mountain glen, finally unable to resist the power of the season.