It was
cold this morning at 36 degrees an hour before dawn, with no humidity or wind
to speak of. It looked and felt and even smelled like autumn approaching.
There
was a slight wood smoke fragrance in the air, and I suspected the Cheney farm
had started an early fire in the stove to take the edge off the chill in the
house. Out in the street, where the vapor lamp shines down an amber-colored
light, the smoke had collected in the low spot, settling in like fog seen
sometimes in cooler valleys.
Approaching
from up Grove, where the road rises slightly at the junction of Sunset Lane,
Glen’s twin headlights were visible just above the layer of ground smoke, and
as his car reached the descent past the town fields toward the low spot, the
sharp beams vanished and became a brilliant diffusion of light, each particle
of smoke laden air reflecting in all directions, until his car glided beyond.
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