It’s been so absolutely scorching hot. The heat lasts through the night barely lifting only to come full strength again in the morning. It’s 3 am and I’ve just taken the dog out for her last “constitutional ” before retiring. There’s no wind. The air is humid. The grass is sopping wet. The entire village is enveloped in a warm cloud . I can feel the weight of the moisture in the air push against me as I move across the lawn. The light from the barn across the field is softened by the mist into a glowing haze. The scent of the garden hangs all around. There is no particular flower that stands out just the almost overpowering sweetness of the earth as it lolls drenched in the misty humidity. Mosquitoes and crickets alike are silenced by the blanket of moisture. I reach the house and my feet are sodden, small bits of grass cling to the bottoms and tops. I have to wipe the dog’s paws or she’ll leave wet paw prints across the linoleum in the kitchen. Like Brigadoon, the village seems to hang in the mist hidden from the rest of the world. Tomorrow the sun will rise,the mist will fade and the world will find us again.