The breezes are dying down, and both days and nights getting warmer again. The foliage is slightly less dense each day, and each night the stars linger a bit longer. For now the crickets are the nocturnal voice, but soon there will be cicadas again, buzzing about the distant approach of autumn. I can smell the fields growing ever drier, and the scent of jasmine is gone. Sleep comes at strange hours and brings strange dreams, the strangest by sultry day. It's better to sleep late at night, when the coolness has tempered the silent air. But I never know any more when I might drop away and find some world of visions awaiting. Even when it leaves the sky clear, summer clouds my thoughts.