Four months of life with the box fan. One-hundred twenty days of whirring white noise. Summer ended 72 hours ago, just like that. One day it is 103 degrees, the next it is only 90 and you know the long bake has come to an end. Three days later, it’s in the 70s and confidence begins to grow that summer will not surprise us with a curtain call. In a moment the whir of the fan reaches a crescendo of unbearable screeching. Out of the laziness of LCD bathed hypnosis, I leave my chair to quiet the fan. But I am reluctant to stow it in its winter quarters. I live in the desert, the sun is deceitful.

And it is quiet now. The windows are open, a 75-degree breeze feels chilly. I listen intently for the noise of the quiet to make itself heard. Static has not yet been replaced with the sound of the wind, or the clouds streaming by my city. My ears buzz with echoes of fans and air-conditioners long after the summer is gone. Can wool be far away?