A cool dark breeze rustled the branches of the city trees. A cat sat in the third floor right window of a dilapidated clapboard house, one of many in varying states of disrepair lining the street. The cat blinked twice up at the sky as it sniffed the incoming air before it silently quit its quiet perch. This was not a breeze it wanted infiltrating its nostrils.

It was the wind of change. The vibrant oak in front of the house, tall and strong in its new summer fortitude, trembled in the damp heat of the solstice night. It had been the longest day of the year. The night only had so many hours to work its mischief.

The breeze became a gust, turning the leaves around in a cascading waterfall show of summer fertility. Faint whispers moved from branch to branch, spreading murmurs and rumors into the quickening darkness.

One more circular gust, spiraling from the top leaf then shuddering down the spine of the great oak, tickled its every knot and crevice. The wind sighed along the thick of the trunk, through where one split into two millions of minutes ago, down to its dozens of toes snaking through the ground under the rows of houses which safely held the people on their couches, watching their television sets, reading their books.

The cat sneezed in its corner, and nobody noticed the grass stand on end as the breeze died down and all went still.