fireflies, lights, summer

the last bits of light

The little bright light was unmistakably the flash of a firefly. It was almost dark, and I was by the dogwood in the front when I saw it. At first, I thought how wonderful. And then I thought sadly, oh little guy, you’re way too late. This isn’t gonna work out for you.

I made my way to the back door, and whoah, another light flashed. And another. And seconds later another in the furthest part of the back yard, under the trees. At least four different bugs. After that I lost track because fireflies cover some distance between flashes. If I knew how, I would have said, hey, there’s a guy in the front looking for you.

It seems late for fireflies, but it’s been a strange year.

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That isn’t a dogwood in the picture, and those aren’t fireflies. It was a little too late to take pictures, but those last bits of light call to me. Still, the fireflies were for real. I’ve been wordy of late. The end of summer puts thoughts in my head. Thanks for patiently reading and taking the time to tell me what you think.

ladybugs, robins, summer

spotted


Spotted
robins.
Three of them.
Young ones, for sure.
Fledglings, nestlings,
constant feedings.
Papa Robin worn thin, too worn for singing.
Evening songs competing
with cicadas
and crickets.
Ribbits.
When did that happen?
You know, Summer running up ahead,
glancing back. And that snotty grin?
Summer’s promise, the long days of june.
Done
And
Done.
Ahh ….
Spotted
lady,
painted bright and new as spring.
Me? I’m whining and lamenting
where this weird old summer’s going.

photographs from july 25, 2020

summer, sunlight

quiet

for a few weeks in the summer,
the days are long enough and the sun stays high enough
for the last light of the day to make it in from the west

photographed july 1, 2020

___________________________
 
© Etikser. All Rights Reserved.
All photos and images here are my own.
They may not be used elsewhere or reblogged.


Please visit my other blog, Clover & Ivy, https://cloverandivy.wordpress.com.
I post mostly nature photos there.

life, personal writing, photo, photography, poem, prose, summer, writing

morning coffee on the back porch

your bothered sigh 
another day

a squeak 
a bang

sliding doors

nearby voices fading far
muffled jumble
meaningless words

engines and brakes 
thumps and car doors
invisible airplane overhead purr

a singular 
dispirited 
gnarling bark 

hums
buzz
someone’s busy outdoor chores

then

quiet
nothing
but wind and birds and bugs silence

til

a swishing  swirl
swiftly spinning  
bicycle wheels

one more sip, your final gulp
sun up sounds
summer’s day waking up

baseball, green, memories, personal writing, photo, prose, summer

batta, batta, batta

You stand at the rail and see lots of open field. Grass and dirt and weeds and clover, all the way to the outfield, and the fence.

Then, you hear it, the crack of the bat. Somebody got a hit. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s the shrill whistle of metal.

Right in front of you, a big clay area, the baseball diamond, a pitcher’s mound, and those weird pillows to mark bases. Those bags must have been around since Babe Ruth.

But we’re here in the dugout, and there’s the old dirty bench. How many butts sat on this bench? It’s where you wait your turn to bat, or go out in the field.

So you sit, swing your feet, and take up the chant. It helps your teammates hit better, I guess. Maybe it keeps you from getting in trouble with other fun stuff, like tossing water around, or telling stupid jokes. Saying words like fart, that make your friends laugh. Could be chanting is supposed to help you forget you need to go to the bathroom.

You punch your glove for awhile, play with the strings. It kinda smells. Pretend you’re catching a fly, then a grounder. Nothing feels like a baseball, does it? Smooth, dirty, matte, hard.

It’s all part of the game.

What?

Gotta go. They’re handing me a helmet. What inning did you say it is?

____________________________
etikser

memories, summer

all in the smell of just cut grass

A sensory rush stocked with the stuff of long-forgotten whims
A second to pause and hold onto the smell of summer and innocence
Rolling down grassy hills
Laying at the bottom, a jumble of limbs
And stupid silly giggles
Dress up play and make believe
Bicycles, grass stains, and skinned knees
Long warm days, staying out til dark
Hide-n-seek and Capture-the-flag
All in the smell of just cut grass