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.
Sometimes I sit out back in the dark at the end of a depressing day, and it’s quiet, just quiet, nothing but me and the quiet.
Sometimes I see stars shining up there, far past the trees. But tonight, I don’t see stars. Just the tops of tall trees and past them nothing. Nothing but gray skies.
Sometimes I look up and see a flicker. Or I imagine a flicker. Like a firefly? It’s too soon, isn’t it? I remember the 4th of july when fireflies lit up those trees like some kind of magic. Like the magic that’s only real in memories.
Sometimes sitting in the dark listening to the quiet makes me think.