A gray day in June is a bit like one of those eccentric people one sometimes sees wandering about the city streets with a somewhat distracted look. They are off in their own world, unaware of the stares of those who think them out of place. Sometimes they mutter to themselves. Today muttered to itself with crickets in early afternoon, and exuded the scent of night-blooming jasmine while daylight, though dimmed by overcast, was yet abroad. The bright yellow flourishes of Scottish broom lining the road to the south seemed inappropriate to the sombre landscape of brooding green. Even the songs of the birds sounded subdued, as though the singers were loath to disturb the strange creature in whose unexpected presence they found themselves. Who knows what madness might lurk behind that unfocused, cloudy gaze? By care or fortune, the day remained undisturbed, passing without protest into serene dusk. The birds are now bedding down, perhaps relieved that no thunderous outburst disrupted their daily routine. As for me, I'd have enjoyed a bit of excitement, though I was surely not distressed by the placid behavior of this visitor. I've long felt affection for those days which fail to recognize their season. We're a bit alike, I think.