Warm north winds are once again clearing the sky of all clouds. On these clear days, I like to go to a place near the edge of the canyon where, above the roof of a house that lies below the level of the road, I can see for several miles. Beyond a row of digger pines, whose complex shapes make them look like oversized bonsai, the canyon opens out to the southeast. As the sun nears the horizon, all the low-lying forest is caught in a cloud of golden light, and, in the distance, against a lavender haze, a long ridge of the Sierra juts out, green and brown, looking much as it must have looked for ages, untouched by any sign of human presence. The ridge stands out brightly for a moment, even as the last rays of sunlight lift from the tops of the tallest trees around me, and then it, too, swiftly falls into shadow. The cloudless sky darkens through deeper shades of blue, and the first stars emerge. I walk home through the dim world, listening to the crickets chirping their Autumn song.