Walking down the street there's a cool breeze twisting through hair as a haze is settling in, blurring the street lights ahead. Russian sage quietly waves in the wind and crickets crick on in the rocks.
The roads are empty now - strange, in a town that's brimming with life.
Hanging in the air is a light grit that almost coats your mouth with every inhale, reminiscent of the red sun summers of childhood.
It seems, somehow, that perhaps the heat coming from the not-too-distant burning fires could hold off the change of seasons, keeping winter at bay a little longer - but it won't. It never does.
You can feel the change.
The night air grows more crisp with every fading of the sun, and the wind reminds you again of your exposed nose that the summer mercifully never touched, but only freckled lightly.
The moon is hiding now, behind blotchy clouds, with illuminated and shimmering like fragmented ice crystals.
It's been a good summer. A long summer.
