Pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.

On my honor, I saw a mini tumbleweed dart past this afternoon. The baba a few houses down has been preparing for this day. Her garden is all shale and sage and spikey drab things that smell lovely when crushed under your sneaker--and I swear I heard the snapping of blistered fingers as it butted up against her porch.

That and the clouds have been burning for days. No substance or wet. Just grey breath on a clear sky and always the smell of smoke.