The wind that sings in the summer leaves is a warm wind. The butterflies have handed over the skies to moths, though some colour still hangs in the world and no stars shine yet in the still blue sky. The bone white moon rides across and silver-blues the sea. The evening is hush, so hush that we hear the aerymice on the wing and the moth wing hum and the leaf song and the grasshopper warbler summoning starsong. Distant cows call, a dog barks across fields. The sea is so still that the surf song is absent from the evening's symphony.
Perhaps summer has come at last.