All afternoon, the coveted tufts of white cloud hung motionless, rendered the distance tantalizing. In their dissipation, they are a yellow haze. The shadows have all gone, and all the green darkens where an unseen evening bird chirps. The neighbor's web of hammock lies slack, fades into bush and bole. Three white chairs sit empty, though a slight rustling of leaves suggests a conversation of ghosts. A black cat slinks toward the orchard. A sprinkler ticks somewhere and moistens the warm air with the scent of damp grass. The haze turns rose, lavender, violet. The last crow has left the sky to the unseen owls. The thought comes to me that summer is like a Moebius strip. I have no idea what that means. It's time to go in.