Few of the grasses in the fields now show any green at all. There, and along the verges of the roads, all the slender, waving stalks are brown and grey, and gold. The warm afternoons are filled with the scent of dried grass and pine needles and, in the brushy places, last autumn's leaf mold. By day, the sky is brushed with drifting white streaks of cirrus clouds. At dusk, the last waxing moon of summer is already high in the east. Later, its brightness pales the stars, and a warm wind flows down the ridge from the deserts east of the mountains. It sends the first fallen leaves skittering along the pavement, adding another voice to the night song of chirping crickets and whispering pines. The transition has begun.