The breeze moves differently through the trees here… slower. The dry leaves rustle against each other in a way I only hear in Texas. A cicada sings, even here in this residential neighborhood. The slow, gentle breeze picks up the small, fallen leaves… skidding them across the asphalt in little whirls of movement and sounds. The sun shines cool-ly through the turning leaves. The scent of lemongrass is on my skin.