The trumpet vine has produced a plethora of bright blossoms, orange tipped with red, suitable to the torrid season, but the jasmine flowers rapidly wither, browned by the sun and the lack of water. Soon the nights will smell only of the drying grass and the desiccated earth. I'll miss the jasmine. The full moon will find no whiteness to illuminate, but only the green leaves.
I'm depressing myself. Shower time.