The sky is a hazy grey. It sticks to the outlines of the silver maple tree and its leaves, making shadow puppets on its own canvas. The big orange street lamp set up in the backyard seems to color even the star- shrouding clouds. It never does get any darker around here than this, we've seen to that.

Just under the harsh orchestra of crickets, there is the straining whine of air conditioners humming away. The freeway, less than a mile from here, adds the constant, droning roar of passing cars. Then there are the police sirens that grow and fade through the night, and the booming sound of car radios that pass by. If that wasn't enough, there seems to be a thunderstorm brewing. It could, however, just be a passing plane.

The damp heat of the day still clings to the air like a frightened child, but at least the brick patio has cooled down, and the chill seems to rise. A light dew is just beginning to form on the grass. It isn't visible yet, but it sticks to dry feet in tiny, icy drops. By morning it will be hard to tell if it has rained or not, though that thunder storm is beginning to be doubtful.

Breathing int his damp air is nothing to thef heartwrenching breath of air outside the city, the kind that sticks in your throat and smells like dead leaves and flowers. This breath of air is a very distant cousin. The dryer vent and dust from the charcoal ash are the closest obvious pollutants. Others, whose names seem to be on the tip of my tongue follow shortly behind it.

Then the moon peaks out from behind the blanket of clouds, like a wink in slow motion. For a moment it all seems to stop. Weird, to have a moment like that, out of the blue. A car passes rather suddenly, breaking that moment in two and stealing the attached emotion. I have to go in, it isn't good to leave the doors open this late at night.