The dawn is sneaking up on me, a little earlier each day. Each day is much the same, but slightly longer. Although it smells a bit damp, and the half moon, noticably further south than it was last month, shares the sky with thin pale clouds, I know that the sky will clear within a short time, and the sun will again warm the dry day. Those pink bands of empty dust which will soon be catching the first light against the pale blue morning have nothing for the trees and grass. The seasonal rills will not run fresh through their green banks, and the year-round streams will continue to lack the force to be heard more than a few yards away. Already, the frogs have stopped singing in the night, even though it is not cold. I miss the rain. If it does not soon return, I will miss it even more.