It's a smell that I love: smoke.
Maybe from my months (years, altogether) of living with only wood for heat.
Here, some farmers burn stubble and the smoke carries long distances.
This burn was just a mile from our place and we took a drive to have a look. Sometimes these fires, even when watched closely, do get away on a person because of the ever-present wind.
Bits of black papery char were floating down into our yard from somewhere, possibly from this fire or even a burn further away.
We have yet to consider having a small bonfire in the front yard, what with the surface of the ground so dry and quick to kindle, and the wind being what it is. It's been too cold anyway; Bev and I sat in the sun the other afternoon but had to put jackets on.
I stand on the step after dark and listen to the birds and frogs and look at the stars, but not for long. Instead I open the bedroom window a crack while reading in the evening. The sora has not yet returned, and I'm waiting with some anxiety. What if it doesn't return? I'd miss it terribly.
It's rare to catch a glimpse of the sora, but I get to LISTEN TO IT before falling asleep each summer night.