The lull ends, and more hours of rain follow. Then the last of it falls, and the clouds rush north in some wind that doesn't reach the ground. When the moon emerges, I see masses of wet leaves crowding the lawn, gleaming in the sudden brightness. It is marvelously cold. I suspect black ice in every shiny patch of pavement. The air is redolent of saturated wood and the sweet smell of decaying leaves. When I return indoors, some of the leaves cling to my shoes. I find a trail of them behind me- small, dark ovals glistening on the pale carpet. When I pick them up, they are cold and slick. I put them in the wastebasket in my room. Their scent will fill the air all the while I sleep.