The mist which dampened the gray afternoon became a sprinkle, and is now a drizzle. Dank leaf mold scents the cold air, mingling with the smell of wood smoke. I hear birds squawking nearby, and the thump made by a woodpecker seeking its dinner in the telephone pole. Mostly, I hear the sound the rain makes, like the applause of a Lilliputian audience. Fading light deepens the gold of the remaining oak leaves and the red that still clings to the dogwood, and shadow slips out from under bushes and trees and overtakes the lawns and flower beds and the deserted street. The moon is concealed by the clouds, but I imagine its light gleaming on the billowing fields, displacing sunset's pink and mauve with silver. From here below, I might soon see its faint glow amid the mottled drifts, but this night is destined to be dark and filled with drumming raindrops. I expect to enjoy it.