Perspectives

The last of the light fades slowly, taking with it the day’s color. First, the robin loses his red breast, the trees slowly become silhouettes, and the field of wheat, in daylight golden, becomes tan and then grey, for night has its own color. The bees bed down and blinking golden lights signal the fireflies and the beginning of the nightshift. The blue of the sky slowly gives way to pale slate and then gun metal. The stars are not yet out.

The music changes as the sparrow is replaced by the peepers and crickets. The occasional dog barks at shadows.

My house is quiet. I am alone on the porch, and I am watching a flock of geese in the last bit of illumination, huge black birds flapping homeward, wherever that might be. I hear my husband upstairs, moving about the bedroom, checking to be sure windows are open and the breeze is invited in. The day has been hot and humid, and the bedclothes will feel damp. The fans will sweep over us, drying our skin, and we will contemplate and then reject showering, knowing we are at home in each others’ essence. Showers would only need to be repeated come morning, anyway.

I am smoking the last Newport in my pack, wishing it wasn’t the last, knowing that the urge for nicotine will pull me inside, and that will be my signal to say goodbye to the night. I’m an interloper here. I do not belong among the fireflies and the peepers and the cats on their nightly prowl. I belong upstairs, beside my husband, for we have our own nighttime ritual, one I do not want to give up to the other creatures of the night.

Till later....