A fine day for soft breezes and for the sound of the rake dealing with whatever the breezes had brought to earth. I spent an hour exposing the lawns, and then sat watching the trees begin the process of concealing them again. Meanwhile, the windows were wide open letting the afternoon freshness drift through the rooms and enliven them with scents of pine and growing grass. The great heap of leaves my raking had gathered remained undispersed by the air's gentle movements. I heard a hawk's cry, twice, from the seemingly vacant blue sky. There was no scent of smoke. Then the night fell, bringing moonlight as soft as the day's breezes, while summer's survivors, the cicadas, began chirring from the brocade shadows the moon-flecked foliage spreads. My windows remain open even now.