Wind arose last night and un-raked the lawns. Machine-gun bursts of acorns falling headlong clattered down the rooftops and concealed themselves among the gathering drifts of leaves. All the time the late summer insects continued to sing, while placid stars slowly wheeled. It was a north wind of compressed desert air and thus the night was much warmer than I'd expected it to be. Near dawn I went to sleep while the wind made the things of the landscape sing. I remember that there were dreams but the dreams themselves I don't recall. Waking to light and gentled air, I noticed how far north the early afternoon shadows now reach. Mere breezes rustled the shaded litter of the late windstorm while squirrels and crows darted in and out of sunny patches seeking freshly fallen nuts and acorns. The world was altered just enough to make it all seem strange, as though I'd returned from a long journey rather than woken from a few hours of sleep. I had no memory of where I'd been, but found where I was enough to hold my interest one more day. Tomorrow, I don't know.