June 5, 2017
It’s dusk on my front porch,
a cool evening
still at the last of Spring.
The red maples are turning green.
The pear blossoms have given way to leaves.
The primroses are thinning as
the four o’clocks rise up around them.
The swallows cheerfully chirp as they swoop around,
eating hopefully most of the mosquitos.
They settle into the trees and the sun fades,
making quite a racket
as they tell each other about their days.
The lullaby of the crickets rises up from the ground.
The birds settle in for the night.
The peepers croak in a bass line.
Every now and then,
the traffic noise quiets,
and I imagine
I am in a deep forest,
as it was in centuries past,
before we paved so much of it.