June passes with the withering jasmine blossoms which, so recently, were like a fragrant white frost clinging to the green hedge. Now, they are the faded brown of old paper filled with forgotten stories, crumbling away in some stifling attic. Their perfume is faded, too, barely scenting the night. Now is the time when, in blazing afternoons, the cats sleep under drying bushes and, if they move from place to place, stay to the shade or, when they must, hurry across the hot pavements. All the forest waits breathless for the softer air of evening, in hopes of a cooling breeze. Tomorrow, July will descend, and the desiccation continue. Summer is like unassuageable wrath.