It was such a fine and calm day in September. The weather was suddenly cool down after a pouring thunderstorm. I was tired of sitting in the air-conditioned house for a whole long summer, and decided to stay outside to indulge myself with some fresh air. It was five o'clock in the afternoon. The sky was clear. I cleaned a pair of white armed chairs on the deck, which had been remaining muddy during the past summer rains, and seated myself rejoicingly with a laptop on my knee. In front of me stood the huge green screen, formed by the surrounding forest, which made me feel like I was sitting in the center of a deep valley, with my body, as well as my heart, heaved by this very exultant scene in eastern Maryland. The charm of afternoon lay in its approaching dimness, in its gliding down and golden beaming sun, which penetrated the dense leaves and weaving branches. Not far from east view of my deck sat the neighboring garden, noted for white calla lily in summer and for red gerbera daisy in autumn. Over westward window of the study grew a row of leyland cypress, shaping a tall and secretive fence. Among it lingered a single, possibly the last, russet wild flower, which seemed so reluctant to drop, making itself notably distinguished against dark green background.
My chair was comfortable while I was slowly uttering my feelings and dreams with each keystroke, but my deck was lonely. A cup of hot red tea was on the table beside me, serving me a fragrant inspiration, as of scent of a woman. As I wandered in some tales created by my imagination, and in some incidents wished by my feelings and desires, but not yet happened in my actual experience, the evening was unawarely approaching. In the dense forest sang the brooding birds pleasantly. The evening air was still, and leaves made no rustling sound. But this evening calm betrayed alike a few cicadas, which were murmuring momentarily and interruptively, in what directions and depths I could not tell.
I have been enjoying, as much as suffering, this tranquilities, stagnations and peace, in the past ten years, in constraint of my off-work life in playing piano, painting on canvas, and reading the classical. But at that evening's moment, I felt that I had some instant impulse to do more than my custom activities. My veins started being burnt by fire as the air was stirred by falling dark. My fingers were typing some absurdly crazy personal fantasies. My sight unknowingly extended beyond the screen, where the green bushes and tall trees cast their long shadows on grassy yard like a huge image was projected on a panorama. I lingered till the sun went down among the trees, sank crimson twilight behind them, and the rising moon, crescent yet brightening, appeared in the clear east sky above me. I then returned back to the study, of which a window was already kindled with glowing lamps, reminding me it was late. I felt the cool air passing some chills to my skin. Oh! The summer was indeed over.