I wake to the soft pitter-patter of rain, a warm summer rain that has cooled off the air from a hot 80 to a comfortable 70. I decide to take a walk anyway; a summer rain is nothing like a winter or even spring rain that is bone-chillingly damp. The birds are always chattering. The neighbor's dog barks at me half-heartedly as he knows he should hush-hush this early in the morning. I wore a hooded windbreaker, but I turn the hood down--its a nice rain to wet my hair. I turn up my favorite dirt road and a flutter of feet and leaves and a dash of brown stumbles between the green--I've awoken a deer. Last night we caught lightening bugs, and yesterday I scared a hawk from its perch, an owl the day before. The owls and loons have been silent lately, but many nights, most nights we listen to them and wonder just what they are saying to one another. The mosquitoes feast on me like there's no tomorrow, and for them there probably won't be. My friend's flowers gardens are a bright burst of colors and I tell her she could be on a garden tour, as she's spraying them something to keep the fungus from spreading. We picked three quarts of raspberries from a garden that we didn't tend because the owner won't get to them. They are plumb, bright pink, and tasty. Fresh clams from the mud a few hours ago are consumed within minutes as an appetizer with friends, and fresh garden greens wait for us in the salad bowl. The ocean glitters. The lighthouses beam. The boats crisscross the waves. The lakes are full of happy swimmers, gliding paddlers, and gleeful boaters. Lobster rolls and ice cream stands are open, some late into the evening. The sun and water present brilliant combinations of sparkle, color, and reflections morning and evening. I breathe and say, yes, there is Paris, there is Florida, there is California, there are many wonderful places to live, but there is nothing like Maine summer magic.