I work in some funny places. Freelancing affords that kind of freedom, attached to which is the responsibility to get the work done. That has necessitated whipping out the ol' laptop wherever I can: in various waiting rooms, coffee shops, the back deck of the boat, the laundry room, the car ("Could you pull over at that Nice 'n Easy, Brian? They have wi-fi and I need to upload this stuff...").

Tonight, it means enjoying a fleeting pleasure. I wait every winter for it: A balmy, breezy, moonlit night dotted with fireflies. And oh, these breezes. They're reminiscent of South Carolina evenings by the ocean -- softened by humidity, like the sigh of a warm summer day as it settles in for the night. They don't last here in the northeast, though, which is why I am sitting in a lounge chair by the pool at midnight with my trusty PowerBook for a nightlight.

The nearly full moon is so bright that I'm casting a shadow. This has unnerved one of the dogs so much that she nearly stomped to the door and waited nervously to enter the more familiar haven of artificial light inside.

Or maybe she senses what I do: just a hint of foreboding. It's faint and formless, but definitely weighing on us both. This night is too perfect, too beautiful, too overwhelming not to exact a price. The sky is clear, but I feel the approach of a distant storm just as I always have since I was a baby. Back then, it would send me into a squall of panic and crying. And even though I've grown to love summer storms since then, I know when they're coming. The sensation is impossible to explain, a sort of lightness tinged with energy. Never mind -- I told you it's hard to explain...

As much as I don't want to, I'm heading inside, chased by the swarm of mosquitoes drawn by the laptop's light. Turning to shut the patio door, I see a lone cloud sailing across the moon like recon for an army.

A night 12 years ago felt just like this. And it spawned what we in these parts call the Labor Day Storm -- a spectacular green-tinged light show with nonstop thunder and 80-mph winds that shook the house. The storm took out many of the old trees on the Hill (Syracuse University) and all around central NY, damaged countless structures, caused a power outage that lasted days in some places. And it killed an exhibitor camping at the New York State Fairgrounds. If you lived here then, you remember that storm. And two hours before it drifted onto radar screens, I was going around the house shutting windows, to my husband's dismay. "It's hot up here! It's clear out! It's not going to rain..." I couldn't sit still and just chalked it up to one of those inexplicably sleepless nights, or some hormonal weirdness due to my new pregnancy. But when I heard odd noises in the distance, like popping popcorn or muffled gunshots, I knew why I couldn't sleep. I'm still not sure why that storm sounded so odd in its approach, but I knew in my bones it was bad.

The tempest was exciting, terrifying and intriguing, and the morning after brought the neighbors together with coffee from gas stoves and help with fallen trees. I don't wish to repeat it, though.

Back inside, the Weather Channel confirms storms to our west. I'm shutting the windows. It's that kind of night.