The wind returns, blusters through the house slamming doors and sending loose papers flying about the rooms. It is a sultry wind, voluptuous and suggestive, moody and dangerous. It ruffles my hair, playfully makes the curtains dance, tugs at my shirt, then storms off to rattle the windows and knock pictures askew. Outside, I hear the leaves being rent from the trees, the clattering of acorns tumbling down roofs, and small objects smacking against the walls. I expect an entire tree to come crashing down at any moment. Then the wind subsides for a bit, becoming once again soft and supple, whispering in the pines rather than booming in the chimney. All night its moods have changed back and forth, and only the heat has remained constant. I have not yet succumbed to the desire to turn on the sprinklers and dance naked on the lawn.