Dusk

Walks at dusk, where the day becomes sleepy, are my favorite. They remind me that everything, and nothing has changed.

I love where the sidewalks heave in all the familiar places, undulating from the roots of the trees that were there first, refusing to be contained. 

Along a stretch where brick pavers remain, a squirrel with a nut and a bird with a worm carry on - neither in a hurry to get away.

The cat is always roaming here. Clever, she runs to her perch on the porch, just far enough away to observe, but not so close as to be approached. 

From an open window somewhere, the ritual of suppertime spills onto the street with the smells of food and the sound of dishes clanging.

Pots are filled with flowers in the dooryard, and the soil in the garden beds is freshly turned, making way for the eventual blooms of perennials that will return in the same places, for their season in the sun.

The best yards are those of old homes where the gardener yielded to the land, working with what Mother Nature carved out for them. 

Innocence echoes in the old wood-plank swing that still hangs from a tree and the smack of a ball hitting the glove in the back yard.

The scent of fresh cut grass, and occasional wafts of some unknown blossom sit heavy in the air. They smell as dreamy as ever. 

As the last of the cotton candy sky fades,  the peepers begin their chorus, and the night settles in.