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Today the maple tree is cast in the shadow of water winking out light. The clouds hold back the blue. The anoles stretch in the sun, their hues shifting to match the green grass, the grey artificial stonework, or the dull browns of the garden mulch. They bob their heads in a rhythm, their scarlet necks protruding. Warning or enticing? High above, the swallows race and drift like arrows falling through the air and riding on the wind, the new and the old, flying together in the clear air, no matter how thick and humid and hot it may be.