Late, on the tenth day of darkness, something changed. I heard a sound of water slapping leaves.
I took my dinner of left-over pizza and laid on slabs of home-grown tomatoes, poured a tall glass of wine, and headed to the front porch.
The air was still acrid to the tongue. Thick clouds above thick smoke had the street lights on. I sat down and watched fat drops of water splash the pavement and then stop. A promise, nothing more.
Then thunder, lumbering in from the west. Lightning high up - cloud to cloud.
The storm attempted to be ominous.
But after the last year, and the last 10 days, we are sorta spook-proof.
So I slipped aside and enjoyed that last light of a perfect summer evening that the calendar insisted. And I knew by the clock that the sun had not set so I lifted my glass to the blue skies above.
The tomatoes gave evidence. Tomatoes never lie.
I accept the promise of the first rain drops.