Early mist hangs from the fir trees, in these, the days we love. Each morning eases its way back into summer. We stay on. Wind wil tell us time to leave. But not yet, not while color and fragrance breath essence of season from the maple grove. Leave of turn to stone, the wind will say. We'll hear and heed. Meanwhile we linger where lingering peace driffts on the lambent air, as soft as doves. These are the days we love.