Walking the dogs in the last of the dusk light -- the time the French call "entre chien et loup," the time when you can't tell a dog from a wolf -- it's quiet and warm. The road winds around the hills and there are few street lights and no cars. The houses are dark except in the Boo Radley house. The big one on the corner with the roof always full of leaves and the curtains old fashioned and lacy. I hear nothing from the house except angry screams every once in a while. There are children in the yard sometimes on hot summer days, but they never seem to grow.
The stillness makes me nervous because it's September 11th. I rush to get the dogs inside and the door closed as the light disappears completely.
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