It’s been so hot, absolutely scorching hot. The heat is unrelenting lasting through the night and building again in the morning. It’s 3am and I’ve just taken the dog out for her last "constitutional " before retiring. There’s no wind, the night is so still. The grass is wet and the air is humid. Humid might be an understatement. The house, the yard and the village itself seem to be enveloped in a warm cloud . The moisure is so thick that the air is heavy. I can feel its weight push against me as I move out across the lawn. The light from the barn across the field is divided by a million drops of wetness into a glowing haze. The scent of the garden hangs in the moisture laden air. 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 cloud will fade and the world will find us again.