The night here is both profoundly deep and somehow depthless, groundfog easing off the roads in swirls and melting away across the tall grasses of the yard. The fireflies flash their tiny beacons in the surreal blue of twilight, the cat curled up in her usual gray heap atop the old chicken coop, listening to the far-off gurgle of the creek. Somewhere a neighbor is running a motorcycle, or maybe a muscle car, likely panting and grease-smeared in their driveway or garage. The few house lights visible from such distances begin to blink on, through pastures and branches, atop silos, an eerie floating will o’ the wisp calling across late spring fathoms.
Here inside, the air conditioning kicks to life and makes the lights briefly flicker. The ceiling fan is turning lazily above me, the house silent and still in this humid hush ebbing towards summer. The next weeks and months are busy ones, frantic and dizzying with errands and engagements, but for now I’m content to just exist in this space, breathing slowly, awaiting eventual thunder and downpour, and the golden slanting light of autumn just beyond.