Evening has gathered for itself great store of clouds, blotting out every trace of stars. A breeze is helping the trees rid themselves of dead leaves. There will be but little moon, and that rising late, so all the drama of the sky will remain vague for most of the night. It feels nice, though, and it smells damp, and my ears have been pleased to hear not only the rustling of the trees, but an occasional clatter of an acorn rolling down a roof. Still, the katydid who lives near the faucet bib continues to defy the change of season, as though its desperate chanting could prolong the summer. But the night will grow cold. I insist!