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California drifted into town the other day, Walt, in the form of hazy
smoke that was dense enough to hide the mountains at the south
end of the valley. We are in the perfect line of drift to receive
California’s fine-ash-particles from the big forest fire we have been
seeing on the newscasts. It has made for soft red sunrises and
sunsets here.
The wind has died down, and now the smoke is rising and lingering
above California’s San Gabriel Mountains, some three hundred miles
west, just waiting for a breeze to carry it our way. In the meantime,
the stars have returned.
I can hear Charlie in the next room, snoring in the dark like the pug
he is. Not long ago the sun would already have been risen at this
hour, and Lilly would have been pestering me for food. The days
grow shorter because we are also in winter's eminent line of drift.
I rationalize my grudging acceptance of the shorter days by
reminding myself that soon it will be cool and we can go outside
and sit on the patio. At this point that seems like a good trade-off.
The heat has worn out its welcome here. We are tired of being
housebound. It is true that summer is our season for cabin fever,
but at least we don't have to shovel sunshine off the walkways.