Walking through the meadow in August, the sun pouring humid golden honey down on me, I headed for the tree line. The grasshoppers scattered before me, wings buzzing and legs rasping against the dry grass. The woods look so dark and cool, so I quicken my pace. I enter, passing the gate of maples, and the heavy curtain drops behind me. The cicadas are muffled, the breeze slows to a whisper, and the loud, hot sun is mute. I stop squinting, close my mouth, and rest peacefully under the eclipse.