The foreshortened evenings nearing the equinox are nice for walking. There are soft shadows, and the air, though still, is cool. The late light plays across the west faces of the trees, slowly rising until all their green is shaded by their neighbors, and only the pale blue sky remains bright. In the hour of dusk, everything seems suspended, waiting for the change of season as much as for the falling night. I mark each of these days carefully. They have become few, and thus rare and valuable. I store up the memory of them, the way a squirrel stores nuts for the winter. The moon is almost halfway to the full. As it wanes, the nights will grow longer than the days. Then, I will forgive this summer its oppressive heat, and remember these final evenings that redeemed the season.